


After the Storm

by Andrasta14



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Tension, Children, Comfort, Denial of Feelings, Estranged Former Lovers, F/F, F/M, First Love, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Nobility, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Suicide Attempt, Past Underage Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Season Six canon divergence, Second Chances, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cross-class relationship, onesided Thomas/Jimmy mentioned, stubborn assholes, which will eventually be resolved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 96,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andrasta14/pseuds/Andrasta14
Summary: In the aftermath of his suicide attempt, Thomas Barrow may have been given a brief reprieve but he’s still expected to find another position and leave Downton Abbey. When the Duchess of Crowborough unexpectedly visits the Crowleys, Thomas gets an offer he never imagined: to become the butler to the Duke of Crowborough, his long estranged lover.





	1. Dramatis Personae

Author’s Note:

Hello, and welcome! :D

Just to let you know, this isn’t actually the beginning of the story so you can click over to the next part for chapter one now if you like.

And if you’re still reading...there are two things in this part (which you may or not be interested in since neither of them are necessary for reading the story): a dramatis personae and Thomas and Philip’s astrological profiles.

(I created a dramatis personae for my own reference, but thought I’d share it with you guys too since there are a lot of minor original characters in this story. If you’re anything like me and you have those “who the heck is this again?” moments when reading stories with a large cast of characters then you might appreciate being able to refer back to it later. Or who knows, you may just find it interesting as a precursor of things to come.)

I think most of the future characters are listed but I’ll come back to edit this if additional characters come into existence as I’m writing. Also, “m” indicates the date of marriage.

 

_ **Dramatis Personae** _

 ~*~

_Thomas Elijah Barrow_

The new butler of Crowborough Castle (November 17, 1886)

 ~*~

_ **House of Somerset** _

_1523-present_

  _~*~_

  _Philip Stephen Albert Somerset IV_

The 14th Duke of Crowborough (August 15, 1889)

  _Helena Winthrop Somerset_

The Duchess of Crowborough (April 12, 1892 m. May 24,1913)

  _~*~_

  _Nicholas Alexander Philip Somerset III_

First-born son of Philip and Helena, The Marquess of Winchelsea (November 27, 1914)

  _Clarissa Lillian Somerset_

Oldest daughter of Philip and Helena (September 19, 1919)

  _Cassandra Charlotte Somerset_

Younger daughter of Philip and Helena (December 14, 1920)

  _Stephen Charles Somerset_

Youngest son of Philip and Helena (May 7, 1923)

  _~*~_

  _Stephen Somerset III_

The 13th Duke of Crowborough, Philip’s father (1856-1909)

  _Lillian Somerset_

HRH The Princess Lillian, Dowager Duchess of Crowborough (the younger), Philip’s mother,

youngest child of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert of England

(February 9, 1860 m. 1881-1909)

  _~*~_

  _Philip Somerset III_

The 12th Duke of Crowborough, Philip’s grandfather (1826-1898)

  _Charlotte Somerset, senior_

Dowager Duchess of Crowborough (the elder), Philip’s grandmother

(September 4, 1832 m. 1851-1898)

  _~*~_

  _Victoria Somerset Lennox_

Philip’s oldest sister, The Duchess of Carlisle

(March 13, 1882 m. 1902)

  _Jonathan Lennox_

The 11th Duke of Carlisle, Victoria’s husband (1878)

  _Victoria and Jonathan’s children -_

_Adelaide (1903-1918), Jonathan Lionel (1905), Rupert (1907), Madeline (1910), Amelia (1912), Wilhelmina (1914), and Theodore Lennox (1922)_

  _~*~_

  _Arabella Somerset Devereux_

Philip’s older sister, The Dowager Marchioness of Willoughby de Eresby

(April 23, 1883 – November 16, 1918 m. 1904-1916)

  _Kenneth Devereux_

The former Marquess of Willoughby de Eresby, Arabella’s husband (1877-1916)

  _Arabella and Kenneth’s children -_

Edmund Devereux – The Marquess of Willoughby de Eresby (1908),

and Benjamin Devereux (1911)

  _~*~_

  _Charlotte Somerset_

Philip’s younger sister (June 7, 1894)

  _~*~_

  _Richard Somerset_

Philip’s uncle, Stephen’s younger brother (1860)

 Cynthia Somerset

Richard’s wife (1863-1891 m. 1885-1891)

 Richard and Cynthia’s children -

_Samuel_ (1886), _Caroline (1888), and Georgina Somerset (1891)_

  _Henry FitzRoy Somerset_

The 10th Duke of Beaufort, Philip’s third cousin (1887)

 

  _ **The Servants**_

 ~*~

_Clarence Astley_

The former butler of Crowborough Castle (March 11, 1846)

  _Victor Blackstone_

Philip’s valet (January 13, 1872)

  _Kamala Rameshwar_

Helena’s lady maid (April 17, 1897)

  _Avinash Rameshwar_

Philip’s personal secretary, Miss Rameshwar’s older brother

(October 21, 1893)

  _Emma Livingston_

The housekeeper, Blackstone’s younger sister

(June 23, 1876 m. 1900-1908)

_Melissa Taylor_

The nanny (1896 m. 1915-1917)

  _~*~_

  _Fiona MacKenzie_

The cook (October 7, 1880)

  _Nora Danvers_

The under-cook (March 10, 1893)

  _Rebecca Livingston_

Kitchen maid, Mrs. Livingston’s daughter (November 2, 1904)

  _~*~_

  _Eric Cavendish_

First Footman, Fiona’s cousin (March 24, 1898)

  _William Clarke_

Second Footman (July 19, 1900)

  _Oliver Hastings_

Junior Footman (September 28, 1903)

_Paul Lambert_

Junior Footman (May 11, 1903)

_Raymond Potter_

Junior Footman (February 22, 1905)

  _Felix Livingston_

Junior Footman, Mrs. Livingston’s son (June 7, 1907)

  _~*~_

  _Henrietta Wallace_

Chambermaid (1897)

  _Stella Davies_

Chambermaid (1899)

  _Celia Lewis_

Chambermaid (1900)

  _Myra Corbet_

Parlourmaid (1903)

  _Hilda Maxwell_

Parlourmaid (1905)

  _Muriel Findlay_

Parlourmaid (1906)

  _~*~_

  _Gilbert Harvey_

Hallboy (1907)

  _Issac Donaghue_

Hallboy, son of head gardener (1909)

  _Susan Dormer_

Scullery maid (1908)

  _Isla Donaghue_

Scullery maid, daughter of head gardener (1909)

  _~*~_

  _Nathaniel Harris_

Stable master (May 22,1884 m. 1911)

  _Jeremiah Harris_

Groomsman, Nathaniel’s younger brother (1887 m. 1918)

  _Norman Harris -_

Stable boy, Nathaniel’s son (1912)

  _Simon Harris_

Stable boy, Nathaniel’s son (1913)

  _~*~_

  _Walter Martin_

Land Steward/Estate Manager (1871 m. 1903)

  _Archibald Donaghue_

Head Gardener (1874 m. 1899)

  _Donald Wright_

Chauffeur (1896)

 ~*~

  _ **Others**_

 ~*~

_Hezekiah “Blair” Wyndham-Blyth_

Philip’s friend, Fourth son of the Baron Teviotdale (May 24, 1889)

  _Alexander Harcourt_

The Earl of Ancaster, Philip’s friend (June 5, 1889 m. 1919)

  _Neville Carington_

Son of the Duke of Kesteven, Philip’s friend (1887-1917)

  _Percival Lawrence_

Son of the Earl of Hertford, Philip’s friend (1890 m. 1913)

  _Vincent Lawrence_

Percival’s first cousin (1889 m. 1921)

 ~*~

  _Killian Cahir_

A teacher at Eton College (April 16, 1878)

  _Frederick Robertson_

Family lawyer (1863 m. 1891)

  _Louise Campbell_

HRH The Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, Lillian’s older sister (1848 m. 1871-1914)

  _John Campbell_

The 9th Duke of Argyll, Louise’s husband (1845-1914)

 ~*~

  _Elijah Barrow_

Thomas’ father (1853)

  _Grace Barrow_

Thomas’ mother (1859-1900 m. 1877-1900)

  _Laura Barrow Evans_

Thomas’ older sister (1878 m. 1899)

  _Adam Evans_

Laura’s husband (1877)

  _Jacob Barrow_

Thomas’ younger brother (1893-1916)

  _Peter Evans_

Adam’s younger brother (1884)

 ~*~

  _Charles Winthrop_

Helena’s father (1853-1922)

  _Clarissa Winthrop_

Helena’s mother (1870-1901 m. 1891-1901)

 ~*~

_Colin Wilson_

A bank manager (1890)

~*~

 (Note: Yes, I gave Philip, Duke of Crowborough, a last name. How could I not? I would’ve felt like his characterization was missing a leg without one. I basically just looked through all of the family names of dukedoms in England, both existing and extinct, and told myself that I would choose the name I liked most to be Philip’s so at least I would know that it was fitting, historically. Somerset is the family name of the Duke of Beaufort and I decided to include them as a branch of Philip’s family as my nod to them.

Henry FitzRoy Somerset, Princess Louise and John Campbell are fictionalized versions of real people who will be referred to or make a brief appearance. The real Henry FitzRoy Somerset was born in 1900 but I made him older for story purposes.

To my own amusement, I recently came across the name Philip Somers-Cocks (who is the current 9th Baron Somers) a few months after I’d set Philip’s last name in my headcanon stone while doing research for this fic. Philip Somerset meets Charlie Cox hybrid name! with a truly unfortunate spelling of Cox. Lol

Uh, my sincere apologies to Baron Somers for sometimes having the sense of humour of a twelve year old. I would personally just change that spelling to Cox, it’s much classier. I’ll just say that if I was marrying a man with that last name, I’d be keeping my own name.)

 

_ **Astrological Signs** _

 

(I don’t strongly believe in astrology but I’ve still always found it interesting and as I was writing Thomas and Philip, it occurred to me that their personalities in my headcanon were totally that of a Scorpio and a Leo. So I decided to read up on those astrological signs to confirm and for my own amusement. And well, I was right, they are definitely a Scorpio and a Leo! lol Much of what I read sounds very much like them so I thought I’d share what I found in case anyone anyone’s interested.)

 

_Thomas Barrow – November 17, 1886_

 

Scorpio (Oct 23-Nov 21)

Element: Water

Quality: Fixed

Ruler: Pluto and Mars

Strengths: Resourceful, brave, passionate, stubborn, a true friend

Weaknesses: Distrusting, jealous, secretive, violent

Likes: Truth, facts, being right, longtime friends, teasing, a grand passion

Dislikes: Dishonestly, revealing secrets, passive people

 

“Scorpios are known by their calm and cool behaviour, and by their mysterious appearance. Scorpio is the most sensual sign of the zodiac. Scorpios are extremely passionate and intimacy is very important to them.

Learning how to attract the Scorpio man isn’t easy. Scorpio men are tedious, confident, intense, sexual and very competitive. Some of the negative Scorpio traits is the fact that they are highly obsessive, compulsive and jealous people. In order to seduce the Scorpio man, you will have to make sure to keep an air of mystery around you. Games are something that appeal to men born under the Scorpio astrology sign.

With a Scorpio man, it’s all about the challenge and about capturing something, so don’t make it easy and play hard to get. Being honest and affectionate is also very important. They are attracted to confident and flirtatious [people]. However, there must be more than physical attraction to get him to the point where he will allow you to seduce him. He also needs an emotional attraction, because one of the most important Scorpio characteristics is the fact that he is the most intensely feeling sign of the zodiac. He longs for a sexual experience that goes beyond physical limitations, so if you want to seduce him, just bare your soul.”

 

_Philip Somerset – August 15, 1889_

Leo (July 22-Aug 22)

Element: Fire

Quality: Fixed

Ruler: Sun

Strengths: Creative, passionate, generous, warm-hearted, cheerful, humorous

Weaknesses: Arrogant, stubborn, self-centred, lazy, inflexible

Likes: Theatre, taking holidays, being admired, expensive things, bright colours, fun with friends

Dislikes: Being ignored, facing difficult reality, not being treated like a king or queen

 

“People born under the sign of Leo are natural born leaders. They are dramatic, creative, self-confident, dominant and extremely difficult to resist, able to achieve anything they want in any area of life they commit to. There is a specific strength to a Leo and their “king of the jungle” status. Leo often has many friends for they are generous and loyal. When in love, they are fun, loyal, respectful and very generous towards their loved one.

A Leo man wants to be treated like a king in their their intimate relationship and this is not their narcissistic characteristic, but a true inner need that all people with deep self-respect have to feel. Plans with him are always big and dramatic, and showering with admiration, devotion and attention come natural both ways. This is a man who gives many gifts when they are in love, often expensive and posing as a statement of his effort. A Leo man will love compliments, and although he appears confident, he needs a lot of praise to start feeling safe around his loved one, too.

However romantic and passionate, this man will rarely choose a [person] that doesn’t “go well” with his appearance, or doesn’t make him look good in the eyes in the eyes of specific groups in the outer world. He is known to easily take the role of an eternal bachelor, always on the hunt and celebrating love and life. He will put himself in the centre of attention, and his partner could compete with a number of admirers, but their relationship is not in danger as long as he is adored the way he loves to be. When treated right, he will stick around forever.”

 (Information from: http://www.astrology-zodiac-signs.com)

 

If you actually read all this, bravo you! Hope you weren’t too bored. : )


	2. Chapter One

Author’s Note:

(Regarding the fic)

This story is an AU of season six, so don’t expect everything will necessarily happen in the exact same timeline as it did in the show or that it will even happen at all.

I put Underage and Non-con warnings just to be safe. Both of these things are in relation to past events that will be mentioned at some point. They don't apply to the main story.

I’m not entirely sure whether or not the content will ever reach Explicit status, but it will definitely be at least Mature. If I reach a point where someone thinks it's gone into explicit content, let me know and it will be changed. Any violence should be on the mild or moderate side, or it will occur off-screen.

_[When you see this, it means it’s a flashback.]_

FYI: This story is titled “After the Storm” because the prequel to it (which I’m writing simultaneously with this one) is called “A Summer Storm”. As you might guess, it will be the story of Thomas and Philip’s summer during the London season. This is the main story that I’ll be focusing on for now, but keep an eye out for it’s prequel in the future, too!

Oh, and this story isn’t beta-read so if you see any mistakes please point them out so I can fix them.

(Boring rambling regarding me, and by extension this story, which you might want to skip, which in fact you probably should skip. lol)

Many firsts to be found here: This is my first Downton Abbey story ever so be please be gentle with me. It’s also my first fic on AO3, so it’s like I’m finally christening my account. This is the first thing I’m writing for the first time in over six years as well, so my writing is basically like a bucket of rusty nails I left outside in the rain for six years because I was too depressed and anxious to write or do much of anything on a reasonably functioning human level so please bear with me. Nevertheless, here I am, trying to get my sluggish brain to articulate the story I’ve had percolating in my head ever since I first started watching DA for the first time this February (yeah, I know it’s been around since 2010 so it took me a long time to get around to watching it, lol).

To make a long story short, the scene in the first episode of DA with Thomas and the Duke of Crowborough was actually the first thing about the show that really caught me enough to make me decide I wanted to keep watching it. I very quickly read all of the Crowbarrow fics I could find, then reread all the ones I’d liked best and then found myself still wanting more because...there just isn’t enough of it! I’ve had this idea for a story in my head for so many months that I finally decided that I should just try to write it and at least I’d be contributing something that other people who also like this pairing could read since there’s so little of it.

There ends the rambling. (looks around in embarrassment that I wrote so much in an author’s note) Geez, I hope no one read all that...

On to the first chapter, what you actually came here for.

_“Life to me is a dream that never wakes:_

_Night finds me on this lengthening road alone._

_Love to me is a thought that ever aches,_

_A frost-bound thought that freezes life to stone.”_

John Clare, _Child Harold_

 

_“Can I ask you a question please_

_Promise you won’t laugh at me_

_Honestly I’m standing here_

_Afraid I’ll be betrayed._

_......_

_Can you turn my black roses red?”_

Alana Grace, _Black Roses Red_

 

Chapter One

 

_“Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly_

_Your looks, because they stir_

_Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die:_

_The very comfort that they minister_

_I scarce can bear, yet I,_

_So deeply is the arrow gone,_

_Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.”_

Percy Bysshe Shelley, _Edward White_

 ~*~*~*~

_Sunday, August 16, 1925_

It came in three quick raps, the dreaded sound that heralded the beginning of yet another morning.

 “Six o’clock!” Downton Abbey’s lone remaining hallboy called out loudly from the other side of the closed bedroom door.

 “Fuck,” Thomas Barrow groaned, startled abruptly from a deep sleep by the hallboy’s wake up call. His eyelashes fluttered, eyes refusing to open even in the weak early morning light from his small attic window. The leaden heaviness of his limbs weighed him down to the thin mattress, unwilling to move.

 Sometimes he imagined that the reason he felt so heavy was because he’d somehow become water-logged by that last final bath he’d tried to give himself and that even after he’d been pulled from the bloody water, he still carried it around, locked inside of his body. Thomas tried to push the disturbing thought away. It was thoughts like that that could lead a man straight to an asylum.

  _Didn’t I just do this_ , Thomas thought wearily.

 “You seem unusually disenchanted with life these days, Mr. Barrow,” Carson had said to him. He wasn’t wrong.

 It felt like somehow all his mornings – or indeed perhaps all of his waking hours – had blurred together into one never-ending morning wherein he was always expected to wake up but never allowed to sleep. Which he knew was ridiculous; he’d sunken into bed in a state of restless exhaustion by eleven o’clock last night, the same as he had been doing every night for months now.

 To think that at one time Thomas had liked staying up as late as he could get away with, enjoying the little leisure time he had at the end of a sixteen-hour day lounging around reading or playing cards if anyone happened to be around to play with. Particularly if that person had happened to be Jimmy Kent.

 Those days seemed so long ago now.

 Now it was as though some sucking void was constantly leeching away his energy and no amount of sleep could make him feel truly rested.

 The closed over wounds on his wrists – it had not been all that long since Dr. Clarkson had come to remove the stitches – seemed to tingle beneath their bandages then, as they often did when he found himself thinking about things he’d rather not. Thomas wondered if he was imagining the sensation, if perhaps the tingling wasn’t just some psychological accompaniment to his pathetic attempt at trying to go to sleep forever.

  _I_ _failed_ , had been Thomas’ first searing realization upon waking up to find himself lying on his back under the covers of his own bed once again, when the last time he’d closed his eyes he’d been looking at the tiny cracks in the bathroom wall to avoid watching the sight of his blood slowly flower in the bath water.

  _I failed. Of course I did._ A bitter sob of a laugh had escaped him then. _When have I ever_ _ **not**_ _failed at anything that really matters?_

 He’d felt a hand gently stroke his hair away from his forehead then and turned his head to see Baxter sitting in a chair beside his bed as if she’d been waiting for him to wake up. Her deep brown eyes had been exhausted and sorrowful as they met his and he’d realized then what must have happened. No one but Baxter would have cared, or even noticed him, enough to come looking for him in time to save him.

 His face had crumpled as tears poured thickly down his face and pooled under his chin. Clenching the sheets tightly, he had just barely managed to choke out, “Why did you...you shouldn’t have. _You should have just left me to die!_ ”

 Thomas blinked back the stinging in his eyes at the memory. Well, at least he’d finally gotten his eyes open, now he just needed to get the rest of his body to remember that, physically at least, he was still supposed to be alive.

  _Yes_ , he reminded himself stoutly, _you are still alive. And you need to get your arse out of bed and get ready for work while you still have a job to go to._

 Determined,Thomas flung aside the thin quilt covering him and shivered slightly as he was exposed to the cool air of his room. It was only halfway through August and yet the early summer mornings already felt chilly to him. And to think he still had winter to look forward to.

 Hauling himself upright, Thomas reached out to his bedside table to check his pocket watch. 6:21, it read. He sighed tiredly. How had twenty minutes managed to go by when it hadn’t felt like more than five? Apparently that sucking void affected more than just his energy, it was also a time thief.

 Thank heavens Thomas had long gotten into the habit of taking his baths in the evening so that he didn’t have to worry about running late in the mornings because he was forced to share a single bathroom with the other male staff. (That Andy hadn’t thought it at all odd that Thomas would take a bath in the middle of the workday just went to show that, however kind the boy may have been, he wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer.) Of course, it wasn’t quite as bad these days as in his footman days with only Andy and the lone hallboy to share with. Carson, of course, had a bathroom of his own.

 Thomas stood slowly, closing his pocket watch with a click, and began to stretch out his sleep-stiff body. There was still plenty of time to dress and be down in time for breakfast.

 ~*~*~*~

 “Good morning, Mr. Barrow,” Mrs. Hughes greeted as Thomas entered the servant’s hall.

 “Good morning, Mrs. Hughes,” he returned with a small but genuine smile as he sat down beside her.

 Baxter smiled at him gently from across the table, “Good morning, Mr. Barrow. Did you sleep well?”

 “Well enough,” he replies, helping himself to the breakfast platters laid out on the table as the two maids filed in, followed closely by Andy and the hallboy.

 Andy gave Thomas an amiable, if slightly nervous smile (because apparently there was nothing quite like being discovered in a bath of one’s own blood to make people walk on eggshells around you), as he sat down and helped himself to breakfast.

 Neither interested in hearing or participating in small talk, Thomas just focused on eating the food in front of him. The buttery crunch of toast, the fluffy goodness of the eggs, the salty richness of the sausage – the worldwas so much simpler and less painful when he could just focus on the small things that hadn’t yet been ruined in his life.

 Just then the Bateses entered, murmuring their good mornings to everyone, and Thomas’ all too brief concentration was gone. The toast suddenly felt like wet mush in his mouth.

 Thomas cursed silently the fact once again that Anna hadn’t gone with Lady Mary on her honeymoon because she hadn’t wanted to be separated from her husband for so long.Honestly, would it have killed Bates have taken his holiday weeks and just gone with Anna? It’s not like Thomas couldn’t have valeted for Lord Grantham in addition to his duties as under butler while he was away. Then Thomas could have been spared this feeling of being a bug pinned under glass.

 He made a concentrated effort not to fidget uncomfortably in his seat when he sensed Bates’ scrutinizing gaze on him.

 Thomas had known instant that Anna had told Bates that he’d tried to take his own life. He’d been able to tell by the way Bates’ usual look of quiet, smug, self-righteousness had abruptly turned to something akin to pity and something else Thomas couldn’t quite define. Curiosity? Wariness? He honestly wasn’t sure but he knew that this new look grated on him in a way different, but equal, to the way old look had.

 “I heard you’ve been under the weather, Mr. Barrow,” Bates had said to him when he’d managed to corner Thomas alone in the boot room on the first day he’d been able to return to work. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

  _Oh, yes, of course I feel ever so much better._ Thomas had wanted to say. _Sure,_ _I hacked myself opened with a razor blade but they had me stitched right back_ _together_ _, injected_ _me_ _chock full of sunshine and rainbows and now I’m_ _right as rain_ _...you great bulldog-faced git!_

 Yes, Thomas had tried to kill himself and had been saved before it was too late. But saved for what exactly? Nothing had changed. The world was the same cold place it had always been and Thomas’ place in it certainly hadn’t altered in the least, pity for the “suicidal footman” notwithstanding.

 Thomas had finally come to the conclusion that, no, the world wouldn’t change. The only thing Thomas had any hope of changing was himself. He understood in theory that he needed to somehow become a better and nicer person if he wanted people to give a damn about him but, well, the execution of said change was another matter entirely. He felt it was rather like telling a scorpion that if it wanted to survive it needed to find a way to turn itself into a puppy.

 Thomas had felt himself bristle at Bates’ unusually compassionate attention and responded with cool derision,“I’m just fine, Mr. Bates. Don’t strain yourself with concern for little old me.”

 He’d stalked off then to demand of Anna what she thought had given her the right to reveal something so personal to her husband. Anna had looked a bit startled at his vehemence at first but quickly calmed, apologizing quietly and claiming that she had told Mr. Bates because she’d thought it might make things a bit easier for Thomas if he knew what Thomas was going through.

 Thomas was well aware that it was very often his caustic aloofness (coupled with the selfish ambition of a man who had long been his own only advocate in the world) that made people dislike him, but he honestly didn’t know how to behave in any other way. It was ingrained in him to protect himself by keeping other people out of his personal affairs and to conceal his true feelings by making people so wary of him that they tread carefully around him whenever possible, never pushing, never looking deeper. He’d built his barricades up high and strong, laid his trenches down low and deeply rooted, for too long.

 He didn’t know how to let other people in, especially men like Bates and Carson. It often felt like there was too great a history of bad blood and hurt feelings with them to ever overcome it completely. He could act indifferently on the surface, but on the inside the hurt never really left him.

 Oh, yes, Lord Grantham and Carson were kind, letting him stay on until he found a new position because their tender consciences couldn’t bear the guilt of being responsible for his death. And Thomas hadn’t forgotten, nor was he ungrateful for, how Bates had interceded to disarm O’Brien in her scheme to ruin Thomas with the Jimmy Kent Incident.

 Accepting kindness and showing gratitude were so much more difficult than being a cruel and calculating bastard. Kindness and concern from others were such foreign entities to him that he had never learned how to bear them with anything approaching grace. Yet another thing for him to strive to learn in life. Death seemed easier, but Thomas was determined not to seek out that easier route again. He had always been a survivor and somehow he would survive the black beast that was constantly trying to devour him, too.

 Thomas had too much pride to do anything less than survive no matter what. He just wished he could find a reason to go on, something, anything, to hold on to.

  _Give me something to fight for_ , he prayed silently to the universe. _Let me not die of disenchantment, of nothing to feel but_ _sadness_ _and bitterness._ _Give me a reason to want to wake up in the morning._

 ~*~*~*~

 Livery neatly pressed and sharply creased, Thomas stood to motionless, blank-faced attention in the dining room as the Earl, Countess and Tom Branson talked over their breakfasts.

 Andy disappeared down the stairs to bring up the last tray of Mrs. Patmore’s and Daisy’s varied breakfast offerings(and honestly, just how many different types of food did two aristocrats and their former-chauffeur son-in-law really need when any day the servants got to have a bit of sausage and egg in the morning was very nearly special?) – leaving Thomas to serve the tea.

 No new footman had been hired since Molesley had turned in his notice to become a schoolteacher less than a week ago and Thomas was finding himself frequently needing to act in a footman’s capacity in addition to his duties as under butler. Despite outranking Bates, the valet, as per usual, escaped making himself useful because he couldn’t carry anything that needed both hands. At one time Thomas would certainly have lodged a complaint – he was an _under butler_ for heaven’s sake – and demanded to know when a replacement would be hired, but now he said nothing.

 With very few advertised positions for a serviceman of his station and no decent offers of employment yet on the horizon, Thomas gloomily wondered whether he’d eventually be forced to walk a mile in Molesley’s shoes and find out firsthand what it felt like to have no recourse but to accept a lesser position than he’d once held. The Crawleys may have had no need for a largely ornamental under butler but they clearly seemed to need another footman.

 The mere thought of being permanently reduced to a footman at thirty-eight years old made Thomas want to jump off the nearest suitable bridge he could find, forget playing around with a straight razor next time.

  _Some indignities_ _are_ _simply not worth enduring_ , Thomas thought disdainfully as he poured Lord Grantham’s tea with his usual precise grace.

 “Edith called earlier,” the Countess told the two men as Thomas filled her teacup as well. “She asked if she could bring a friend home with her when she returns from London tomorrow.”

 “Oh?” Lord Grantham said with interest as Thomas began to pour the tea into Branson’s cup. “Which friend is this?”

 “The Duchess of Crowborough,” Lady Grantham replied.

 The tea spilled over the brim of Branson’s cup and into the saucer as Thomas’ heart suddenly lurched in his chest.

 He barely managed to stop pouring just in time to spare the white tablecloth and cringed internally as every head in the room turned to look at him. Thomas’ heart thudded loudly and rapidly in his ears, taking every bit of experience he had to maintain his composure, to hear himself think.

  _Dear God, is Philip coming here?_ he thought in alarm.

 Branson looked up at him in concern, “Are you all right, Thomas? You’ve gone as white as the tablecloth.”

 “I’m very sorry, Sir,” Thomas forced out evenly, restraining his vague irritation at Branson addressing him by his first name and his even greater irritation that, of all people, he’d had to make such a stupid mistake in front of the former chauffeur. Having to call Branson “sir” was bad enough, but having to apologize to him was nearly unbearable. “I’ll bring you another.”

 “Oh, it’s nothing, really...” Branson attempted as Thomas ever so carefully lifted up the cup and saucer and brought it over to the sideboard without spilling a drop.

 Thomas swore he could feel Carson’s displeased gaze burning into the back of his head. He’d be raked over the coals the moment they were out of earshot, no doubt.

 “Are you sure all right, Barrow?” Thomas heard Lord Grantham ask with a hint of worry as he retrieved a fresh cup and saucer and brought it to Branson’s place.

 Forced to respond now, Thomas gave himself an extra moment to gather himself by picking up the teapot once again and pouring, this time without incident.

 “Yes, My Lord. I...felt a sudden chill overtake me for a moment.” Oh good, he’d made himself sound like a delicate maiden in need of a rest on a fainting chair. “I’m fine now.”

 “Oh dear,” Lady Grantham murmured kindly, “I hope you’re not coming down with something, Barrow.”

 “Hopefully not, Milady,” Thomas replied politely and retreated back to his motionless position by the sideboard.

 Andy returned just then, setting his tray down and placing the serving dishes on the table, unaware that anything out of the ordinary had occurred in his absence. Certainly, it had been many years since Thomas had unintentionally spilled anything in the house; he was nothing if not accomplished at his profession. Finished, the footman moved to stand to attention on the other side of the room.

 “I’m sorry, my dear, you were saying about Edith...?” Lord Grantham apologized quietly to his wife, “I didn’t realize she and the Duchess of Crowborough were acquainted.”

 Servant’s blank immovably in place, Thomas honed in on the conversation with the intensity of a bird of prey that had suddenly spotted a mouse.

 The Countess explained, sounding quite pleased about it, “Edith said they met a few months ago at a charity benefit and they got along so well that they met for luncheon a few days later. The Duchess invited Edith to the Duke’s birthday party at their London house last night and Edith said that she seemed very interested in seeing Downton.”

  _Philip’s birthday party_ , Thomas echoed to himself, a feeling he couldn’t quite identify surging though him. There hadn’t been a year that had gone by in the last thirteen years that Thomas hadn’t distantly noted that it was Philip’s birthday with every passing fifteenth of August. _He would’ve just turned thirty-six. Strange to think of Philip as being thirty-six..._ _I can’t even imagine it._ _H_ _e was such a boy when I knew him._ _I can’t help but wonder what sort of man he’s grown into._

 “And you agreed, I assume?” Lord Grantham asked, a bit warily. Catching the slight disgruntlement in his tone, Branson seemed to watch the two converse with increasing interest.

 Given how affronted the Earl had been by Philip’s conduct the last time he had visited Downton Abbey, Thomas was sure the prospect of his return made Lord Grantham leery. The thought of what Philip’s particular brand of mischief could bring left Thomas similarly nervous. He already had enough problems to deal with, he really didn’t need to have to worry about Philip’s trouble making as well.

 “Well, yes,” Hesitation leaked into the Countess’ voice at her husband’s lack of enthusiasm. “Edith sounds like she likes the Duchess very much and we don’t have anything happening right now so I saw no reason to refuse.” She turned to the butler in concern. “Carson, I do hope this isn’t too short notice? If you need more time I can always call Edith to reschedule.”

 Carson seemed to draw up even taller at her attention, saying composedly, “I’m sure we’ll manage just fine, Milady,” but Thomas could already read Carson’s concern in the knit of his thick eyebrows. The butler was no doubt already calculating everything that would need to be done to uphold the honour of Downton and its noble family. “What time will Her Grace and Lady Edith be arriving?”

 “With the six o’clock train,” Lady Grantham answered.

 Carson inclined his head, “Very good, Milady.”

 Then, with barely veiled distaste, the Earl finally asked the question that Thomas was waiting most intently: “Will the Duke be coming as well?”

 “I’m afraid not,” the Countess replied carefully, pausing to sip at her tea. “Edith said he has business in London that he still needs to tend to.”

 Thomas released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, not quite sure whether or not the exhalation was one of relief or disappointment.

  _It’s relief,_ he told himself sharply, O _f course it’s relief. Who wants to see that bastard again? Not me._

 Thomas didn’t believe for a minute though that whatever business matters Philip may or may not have were enough to prevent him from coming. He’d certainly had no problems rescheduling business meetings or just plain disregarding prior engagements whenever Thomas had been able to find the all too rare time to come see him during their summer in London. Thomas had no doubt that if Philip had truly wanted the chance to see Thomas again he would have endured Lord Grantham to find out if Thomas was still working for the family or not.

  _Philip doesn’t want to see me again then,_ Thomas concluded, the hurt that thought gave him taking him by surprise.

 The Earl gave an ungentlemanly scoff, “More likely, he doesn’t want to show his face here after the upset he caused last time.” He paused thoughtfully. “If Mary wasn’t away on her honeymoon I might wonder if Edith hadn’t invited the Duchess here to antagonize her.”

 Lady Edith certainly wasn’t above doing just that in Thomas’ opinion. She was probably just sorry she hadn’t befriended the Duchess back when she’d first married Philip so she could have invited her to Downton to meet Lady Mary when doing so would have most closely hit the mark.

 “Even if Mary was here, I’m sure she’s long gotten over it,” the Countess put in diplomatically.

 “Gotten over what?” Branson asked, unable to overcome his curiosity anymore.

 “Oh, that’s right, you didn’t start working here until after the Duke’s visit,” Lady Grantham remembered.

 Branson’s brow furrowed, “That long ago? Well, surely Mary’s long over whatever it was, no?” He eyed his in-laws quizzically.

 The Earl sat back with a heavy sigh, pausing to take a long, thoughtful drink of his tea before replying. “For a while, I wasn’t entirely sure she would ever forgive me though. If I hadn’t been unwilling to break the entail that prevented Mary from inheriting the estate after my cousin and his son died on the Titanic – they were the original heirs to the estate before it passed to Matthew – the Duke would’ve proposed to Mary.”

 “What, you mean Mary could have been a duchess?” Branson looked astonished and then laughed, “Oh, she would have loved that.”

 Lord Grantham frowned, “Well, yes, I expect she would have, but I can’t say how happy her married life would have been. Suffice it to say the Duke isn’t the nicest of men. He was only interested in marrying Mary if she was the heiress to the estate.” A brief, uncomfortable silence before he hesitatingly spoke again. “Of course, Mary thought she deserved to inherit the estate regardless of whether or not it made her a duchess, and perhaps she wasn’t wrong.”

 The Countess gave him a carefully guarded look but wisely said nothing on the subject. There was no point in beating a long dead horse.

 ~*~*~*~

 Thomas carefully set down his tray of dirty breakfast dishes on a kitchen counter, taking his sweet time to avoid Carson’s censure for his unsightly blunder upstairs for as long as possible. When he could procrastinate no longer, he reluctantly left the kitchen for the butler’s pantry to receive his marching orders for the Duchess’ impending visit.

 Carson’s door was open when Thomas reached it and he tried not to let his hesitation show as he entered. The butler looked up from the ledger he was studying at his desk, scrutinizing him with beetled brows for a silent moment before inquiring sedately, “Are you well, Mr. Barrow? You seem distracted this morning.”

 Thomas blinked at the thinly veiled concern he saw in Carson’s eyes. He was still far too used to be being rebuked by the man to know quite how to deal with this unprecedented caring after so many years of near antipathy.

 Carson been different with him ever since the older man had first showed up, looming large and uncertain in his doorway, when Thomas was still recovering in his room after his suicide attempt. He’d been somewhat kinder and less severe with him. It was as though he’d realized that Thomas wasn’t entirely the man that Carson had taken him for and he wasn’t quite sure who it was that he was dealing with in his stead.

 After more than a day had passed without Carson once coming to visit him Thomas had thought with a pang that the man wasn’t going to deign to see him at all, so he had been momentarily stunned speechless to see Carson standing in his doorway.

 Thomas had looked up at him askance from the book resting in his lap. “Mr. Carson,” he’d greeted quietly, managing to repress a weary sigh as he’d realized why the butler must be there. “I suppose you want to know when I’ll be coming back to work?”

 A long, pregnant pause had loomed over the room before Carson had taken a single heavy step further past the threshold and then met Thomas’ eyes sombrely, his voice graver than usual as he spoke a bit uneasily. “I feel I owe you an apology, Mr. Barrow. I’ve been...insensitive in my handling of the recent situation. I should not have assumed that you were unaffected simply because you did not seem to show any effects. I...would never have guessed that you would go to such lengths.”

 Thomas had felt sick and empty, sitting there exposed like a hollowed out gourd, searching for words in a void.

 “I should think you’d prefer to be rid of me, Mr. Carson,” he’d managed tonelessly in a near whisper, fingers fiddling with his book in agitation, fighting not to avert his eyes. “You’ve made it no secret what you think of me.”

 Carson had looked visibly stunned for a moment before collecting himself. “While I cannot deny that you have given me your share of difficulty over the years, I have never wished to see any harm come to you.”

  _Oh? Not even a horse whipping?_ The thought had come to him acrid and abrupt.

 Thomas hadn’t known what to say, so he’d said nothing.

 “In any case,” Carson had continued steadily. “I’ve come to let you know that I’ve spoken with his Lordship and it’s been decided that you are welcome to stay on until you find a new position, however long that may take. So I hope that that is one worry that might be dispelled. As for work, while your absence is keenly felt, we will manage until you are ready to rejoin us. You need only concentrate on getting better.”

 Thomas had found his voice at last, a bit choked though it was. “Thank you, Mr. Carson.”

 “Don’t thank me, thank his Lordship,” Carson replied solemnly. “I need to be getting back.” He’d paused a bit uncertainly. “Get some rest, Mr. Barrow.” And with that he’d been gone, closing the door quietly behind him.

 Thomas had forced himself to return to work three days later.

 “I’m sorry, Mr. Carson. I...I didn’t sleep well,” he lied, feeling only slightly badly for it.

 Somehow he didn’t think explaining that he’d made an undignified display of himself in front of the Crawleys because he was alarmed about seeing his former lover again would go over well. And Carson’s sensibilities might never recover if he knew that Thomas had once buggered a duke, a personage so far out of his league that it was unthinkable that Thomas should ever have been able to get his hands on him. _Once_ being a figure of speech no less.

 “Well, I suggest you go have a strong cup of coffee and then meet me back here,” Carson ordered briskly. “Don’t dally, mind, we have great deal of work to do. I’m aware that your half-day is today, but under the circumstances you will have to wait until after the Duchess leaves to take it.”

 Thomas sighed inwardly at this. He’d been looking forward to taking a nap that afternoon and spending the evening reading since he had no where worth going.

 “Also, if you would please inform Mrs. Patmore that Her Grace will be dining with us tomorrow,” Carson continued.

  _Oh, good, throw me under the tram, why don’t you?_

 Mrs. Patmore would not be pleased in the least at having to prepare an exceptionally lavish dinner with such short notice. And the cook was the type to shoot the messenger if she was vexed enough.

 Thomas silently congratulated himself on keeping his voice and expression neutral. “Yes, Mr. Carson.”

 ~*~*~*~

 Thank God no one had told Mrs. Patmore or Daisy about Thomas’ misadventure in the bathroom, so it was business as usual in the kitchen at least. And Thomas would’ve known if either of them had known by now; Mrs. Patmore and her protégé had the collective bluntness and delicacy of a meat tenderizer.

 “What?! Tomorrow?!” the cook exclaimed as she drove a heavy fist into a round of dough on the counter. “A duchess coming and barely a day’s notice! And here’s me with no kitchen maids and this one’s nose stuck in a book!” She flapped a flour-covered hand at Daisy, who was indeed sitting and reading a book. “And on a Sunday no less! Most of the shops will be closed!” Every complaint was punctuated by an increasingly hard punch to the dough that made Thomas glad he’d never made Mrs. Patmore mad enough to want to hit him. He’d have been down for the count.

 “If you’ll just let me know what you’ll need, I’ll arrange to have everything brought here by tomorrow morning at the latest,” Thomas offered in as conciliatory a tone as he could manage in hopes of forestalling her ire.

 “I suppose that will have to do,” Mrs. Patmore huffed out, pausing to wipe the back of her hand over her forehead. “I’ll give you a list after I’ve discussed the menu with Her Ladyship. Daisy, did you get all that? Get up, we’ve got work to do.”

 Daisy paused to carefully place a scrap of paper in her book and closed it unhurriedly in an unconcerned manner that Thomas secretly found amusing given how terrified Daisy had been of Mrs. Patmore in her youth. He himself was still somewhat wary of getting on the cook’s bad side.

 The young woman’s brow wrinkled in thought as she left her seat at the small table against the kitchen wall to look inquiringly at Thomas, “Crowborough? Isn’t that the name of the duke that came here a long time ago, before the war?”

 Thomas blinked in surprise, trying to ignore the way his stomach twinged anxiously at both the personage and visit named, “I’m surprised you remember that.”

 Mrs. Patmore’s hands had stilled in their kneading of the dough, apparently finding the information interesting enough to make her stop and listen.

 “I’m good with names,” Daisy stated matter-of-factually with a shrug and then her face suddenly grew severe, “Don’t tell me that duke’s bringing his wife here after he led Lady Mary on and then threw her over. That’d just be mean.”

  _Not that Philip would give a single thought to doing exactly that_ , Thomas thought before clarifying, “No, the duke isn’t coming, just the duchess. It seems she’s a friend of Lady Edith’s.”

 Daisy’s eyes widened, seeming for a moment to resemble the girl that she had once been. “Really? Imagine that, being friends with a duchess,” the under cook said wonderingly. Her eyes hardened then, lips pressing together in a thin line as she groused, “I’m sure I’ll never even get to set eyes on her. I’ll be stuck down here same as last time.”

 She certainly wasn’t wrong about that. The kitchen staff would never be fit to be seen by any proper guest of the great house. Still, the thought that anyone should be considered so lowly as to not be worthy of being looked upon by the upper classes for even a passing moment made something burn low and bitter inside Thomas.

 “Cheer up, you’re not missing out on that much,” he said wryly, unable to resist adding, “She’s not even a real lady. She’s American.”

 Mrs. Patmore gave a loud scoff, “ _American?_ ”

 “He chose an American over Lady Mary?” Daisy sounded vaguely offended.

 The cook chuckled, resuming her working of the dough, “Way to add insult to injury.”

 “It pays to be filthy rich,” Thomas stated with a smirk, and then glanced around the kitchen. “Is there any coffee?” He’d better be getting back to Carson before he was accused of dallying.

 Daisy fetched the coffee pot, “There’s some left in the pot from breakfast but it’ll have gone cold. I’ll put on some more.”

 Thomas bestowed a small smile on her as he made his way out of the kitchen, “Thank you, Daisy. I’ll just be in Mr. Carson’s office.”

 ~*~*~*~

 By the time Thomas dropped into bed it was nearly 11:30 PM. Carson was nothing if not ruthlessly efficient, no small detail of preparation worthy of a duchess’ arrival had escaped the man’s notice. The biggest job left for him tomorrow was the cleaning and polishing of the family’s best crystal and silver.

 Naturally Thomas would be stuck with tending to the most delicate and expensive of the pieces himself because Carson wouldn’t trust Andy with them. He supposed he should be glad that Carson counted his long years of experience as _something_ even if he didn’t consider Thomas’ word on any matter of importance as being worth a damn.

 Despite his tiredness, he tossed and turned restlessly for a long time. He didn’t know why he should feel so anxious. It wasn’t as if Philip himself was coming to Downton, merely his other half. The other half that Thomas would forever associate, rightly or wrongly, as being the woman that Philip had ended their relationship to find and marry. The woman he had left him for.

 No doubt, Thomas had long been forgotten, his memory turned to ash and swept away just like Philip’s letters to him had been. Thomas just wished he could entirely say the same of Philip’s memory.

 The spectre of the man, of that boy he had once known and come to feel so much for in so short a time, still lingered somewhere in the ether of his heart’s many aches. The ghost of a life, of a love, that might have been had Philip not betrayed what Thomas had thought they’d had together.

  _[_   _“_ _I wish I could steal you away forever, Thomas. I wish I could keep you and never give you back to the world outside.”_

  _“So do it. Who needs the world? I want to be with you, Philip, always.”]_

 It took him far too long to fall asleep with the unbidden whispers of that stirred up ghost in his ear. Much too soon the dreaded knocking was happening again.

 “Six o’clock!” came the shout.

 Thomas groaned and squeezed his eyes closed tighter as if by doing so he might be able to hold back the day a while longer.

 As usual, it didn’t work.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter Two

 Author's note: Chapters one and two were originally meant to be one chapter but I ended up splitting them into two because I thought it would be too long. In any case, this chapter is more than twice the length of the first one, so enjoy (hopefully).

Chapter 2

_“They name thee before me,_
_A knell to mine ear;_
_A shudder comes o'er me--_
_Why wert thou so dear?_
_They know not I knew thee,_
_Who knew thee too well:_
_Long, long shall I rue thee,_
_Too deeply to tell.”_

Lord Byron, _When We Two Parted_
    
     ~*~*~*~
    

Monday, August 17, 1925

 Thomas carefully pulled out a heavy pair crystal vases from the unlocked cabinet in the butler’s pantry, setting them down next to the three large silver candelabras from the dining room that were in need of cleaning. He’d just left Andy in the dining room to help the maids clean the chandelier, as Carson had decided at breakfast that it hadn’t been thoroughly washed and polished recently enough. He figured he may as well get on with cleaning the silver and crystal that Carson expected Thomas himself to look after in the meantime.

 He was just pulling out an apron, white gloves and sleeve protectors from the cabinet drawer when Anna poked her blonde head in the doorway.

 “A letter’s just come for you, Mr Barrow” she told him.

 Setting down the apron he was about to put on, Thomas thanked her as he left to go find the letter in the small bundle of mail that had come in the servant’s hall. He ignored the sound Mrs Patmore barking out orders in the kitchen as he flipped through the letters; she’d basically been on a tear since he’d first set foot below stairs that morning. He’d had to shovel down his breakfast to rush down to the village with Andy and the hallboy in tow at barely seven in the morning, sending them out to procure the items on the cook’s arm-long list and to put in rush orders for whatever they couldn’t immediately buy with the promise from the vendors that they would be delivered as soon as humanly possible. Then they’d had to hurry back in time to prepare the dining room for the breakfast upstairs at nine o’clock.

 It was only ten in the morning and he was already dying for a smoke break. Mostly he just wished he could return to his bed and stay there buried under the covers. Oh well. Another cup of coffee would have to suffice...if he could just find the nerve to sneak into the war zone that was currently the kitchen to get it.

 Finding the letter addressed to him Thomas plucked it out, pausing to study the envelope for a moment but he didn’t recognize the handwriting. It was probably a reply from one of the job postings that he’d inquired into; he certainly didn’t receive much, if any, mail otherwise. The lone letter that he got from his sister, Laura, at Christmastime barely counted.

 Opening it, Thomas scanned over it’s contents quickly. It was from Lord Stiles, whom he’d interviewed with a few weeks back.

 “Good news, I hope,” came Baxter’s voice as she moved to stand beside him as he read.

 “Good enough. Found a job,” he offered.

 “Oh, I'm happy for you, if it's what you want,” she replied with carefully restrained enthusiasm.

 Thomas refolded the letter, feeling vaguely ambivalent about the news. He was certainly glad to have finally received a decent job offer after so many months of job-hunting, but with it came the knowledge that he would soon be leaving the only place he’d had to call home for a very long time.

 All his life Thomas had wanted to belong somewhere and he’d imagined that Downton was the closest he would ever get to it. Now he had no choice but to move on.

 “You know I wouldn't leave by choice, but it's time to draw a curtain over the past few months,” Thomas concluded.

 Leaving Downton would be the ending of a prominent chapter in his life, but it would also be the beginning of an entirely new one. One he was sorely in need of.

 “Will you be working nearby?”

 “Not far. The other side of York.” He’d be a mere forty minute train ride away.

 “So, we'll still see you?” she asked a bit hopefully. Thomas smiled faintly at that; at least someone might miss him when he was gone.

 “What's this?” Carson interrupted as he entered the hall.

 “Mr Barrow's found a job,” Baxter revealed.

 “Has he? Has he, indeed?” Carson said, a bit surprised but also pleased. “Well, I'm glad your efforts have paid off, Mr Barrow. You deserve it.”

 A little burst of warmth flared within Thomas at this, “Thank you, Mr Carson.”

 “I’ve just spoken with Mr Bates and he’s offered to give you and Andrew a hand with the silver,” he continued. “He has some free time now before luncheon so you may want to get started.”

 “I was just taking out the silver from storage earlier,” Thomas informed him as he tucked the letter back in its envelope and slid it into his inside jacket pocket. “I’ll bring it all out here so we’ll have more room to work and Mr Bates can meet me here whenever he’s ready.”

 “Very good, Mr Barrow,” Carson said approvingly.

 Bugger Mrs Patmore ( _not literally, because ew_ ), Thomas had survived actual gunfire – he was going in for that cup of coffee. Something had to get him to lunch time.

~*~*~*~

  _What I wouldn’t give to be able to smoke right now_ , Thomas thought that evening as he stood to somewhat lacklustre attention in his place between Carson and Mrs Hughes in front of Downton Abbey, sweating in his livery beneath the heat of the summer sun and making a conscious effort to refrain from sighing for the second time in less than three minutes. As if he’d somehow heard Thomas’ thought, Carson gave him a stern, almost reproachful look. But that was absurd; had Carson possessed even sporadic mind-reading abilities he’d have given Thomas the sack a long time ago.

 It was one of the maids that gave an impatient little sigh next. Thomas was just glad that it hadn’t been him, his peccadilloes were never so easily pardoned.

 “Maybe the train’s run late,” Andy offered quietly, tapping his foot restlessly at being made to stand in the same spot for so long. At a single look of reproach from Carson the footman immediately ceased the movement.

 Given that Lady Edith and the Duchess were to have arrived with the six o’clock train and it was now nearly a quarter to seven, the train must surely have run late. Downton Village was a small place and the train station was only ten minutes or so away by car. It could have taken the chauffeur and the porter perhaps another ten minutes at most to load the ladies’ luggage into the car, in which case they should have arrived at least twenty minutes ago.

 A strong sense of _déjà vu_ had struck Thomas as Carson had all of the upstairs staff line up for the Duchess’ welcome procession at quarter past six, a reception that the butler didn’t extend to just any visitor. This time Thomas ambivalently awaited the arrival of the wrong Somerset; last time, beneath his deliberately cool exterior, he’d been eagerly anticipating seeing his lover again after nearly a year’s separation. For all that that long awaited reunion had gone so well for him.

 Thomas didn’t really mind the waiting so much; as an indoor servant he was able to spend very little time outside, so he appreciated the fresh air and sunlight whenever he had the opportunity. It was not being permitted to do anything but just _stand there_ and perspire in the sun that was getting to him. Thomas really wished he could just have a bloody cigarette.

 Just then the motor car was spotted turning onto the gravel road from behind the trees. Everyone immediately stood up straighter. (Except for Carson; the butler had never stopped standing up straight to begin with.) The front door suddenly opened and Lord Grantham came out of the house to wait for the car’s arrival; he must have been watching from a window in the foyer to have timed his exit from the Abbey so precisely.

 It was certainly a somewhat less grand procession than the one that had greeted her husband thirteen years ago, Thomas thought as the black motor car bearing the Duchess pulled up in front of the house. The Earl’s economizing of the staff was particularly evident in the small number of housemaids lined up, with only two maids to the six that had been employed in 1912. At least there were still nine upstairs servants to make a showing for the Crawley family though; there were plenty of aristocratic families that were faring far worse.

 Andy moved swiftly to open the car door and the Duchess of Crowborough emerged, followed by Lady Edith and finally the Countess. The Duchess stilled, face turned up to take in the house for the first time and Thomas took the opportunity to surreptitiously take in Philip’s wife. It wasn’t exactly the first time he’d seen her, though it was the first time in his flesh.

 Philip and his new bride had been featured in a three page spread of grainy black and white photographs in the society newspaper a day after they’d wed in May of 1913. It had been the front page story that day and naturally Lady Edith hadn’t been able to resist showing it to Lady Mary at breakfast the moment she’d set eyes on it.

 It had been the very first that Thomas had heard of it since he didn’t read the society paper and hadn’t had time to read any of the other papers that morning and he’d frozen in shock for a moment as Lady Edith had gloatingly brought attention to it. So Philip had found his heiress after all; Thomas would’ve been glad for him had he not been shunted aside in favour of Philip’s pursuit of her. He must have somehow missed the conversation when the engagement notice had come out, for surely Lady Edith would have taken pains to make sure her sister was aware of it.

 Lady Mary had given a derisive little sniff and said aloofly, “Well, I hope for the Duke’s sake that her money makes up for her lack of breeding.” And that had been all she’d said on the matter.

 After the family had left the dining room and William had collected a tray of dishes and gone downstairs with them Thomas, unable to stop himself, had picked up the society paper and stared down at it. His jaw had clenched tightly at the sight.

 The large front page picture was a close-up of Philip and his newly wedded wife in front of the church, her white gloved hand held to his lips in a kiss. It was a perfectly cheeky thing to do so publicly for someone of his station and Thomas had been sure that there were plenty of Victorian-minded citizens casting stones about the improper display, but it was a perfectly _Philip_ thing to do. If all eyes were going to be on him, then by God he would give them something to look at.

 Stomach churning with bitterness, Thomas had roughly jerked open the paper to where the front page had indicated a three-page spread of the wedding was. He’d ignored the accompanying article and looked over the pictures – a picture was worth a thousand words after all and Philip had over a dozen of them.

 There were pictures of him and his bride with his family, members of the royal family, the peerage and prominent politicians. There were more pictures of just Philip and his wife – he’d paused then to read a caption; his wife, _Helena_ , _daughter of American business mogul_ , _Charles Winthrop_ – dancing together and drinking and eating together. There was one of them feeding each other cake, all smiles and laughter, and Thomas had ground his teeth together so hard he was later relieved he hadn’t cracked any of them.

 He’d once teased Philip that if his dukedom ever fell through he could have a promising career as a thespian. Looking at those pictures he’d very clearly underestimated Philip’s acting abilities. Even knowing the truth better than anyone, Thomas’ eyes kept telling him that these were photographs of a man happy and in love with his wife.

 Thomas’ blurring gaze had fallen on another picture then and he’d been unable to tear his eyes away. In it, Philip was unbearably handsome and smiling his absurdly beautiful smile, the smile that Thomas had never seen him use in public but only when he was alone with Thomas. He had secretly begun to regard that smile as belonging to him alone somewhere along the way...but that clearly hadn’t been true at all. At least not anymore.

 In the photograph Philip was smiling at his wife and Thomas was standing alone in the dining room at Downton Abbey trying not to be sick with tears rolling slowly down his cheeks, cursing at himself under his breath for being pathetic enough to still not be completely over the bastard. It had been so many months since their ugly parting and Thomas had thought he’d largely been over it by then. Apparently that wasn’t true either.

 Trembling with rage and anguish, Thomas had violently crumpled the entire newspaper and hurled it into the nearest fireplace and stood there watching it burn. If anyone else wanted to read the society paper, too bad. If anyone asked its whereabouts, he would claim ignorance. Maybe they might wonder if Mary had done it, more upset about it than she’d let on. The thought had been almost amusing, just not nearly enough to penetrate the storm cloud hovering over Thomas for the rest of the day, and for far too many of the days that followed it before slowly easing in a generous haze of stolen wine.

 And now the other half of the object of that long cureless wound was before him twelve years later and Her Grace looked much different in real life than in black and white.

 The first thing that struck Thomas was that she was... _blonde_. Her hair was a gleaming, golden shade of blonde and Thomas couldn’t have said why but he felt vaguely offended by the fact.

  _And here I thought Philip preferred brunettes..._

 The Duchess looked to be in her early thirties at most and was a similar height to Lady Edith, maybe an inch taller. She wore a smartly tailored navy blue travelling suit with fine white piping on the lapels and cuffs that flattered her slender figure well, along with a stylishly matching blue and white cloche hat. Tendrils of her blonde hair had escaped her intricately pinned back hair to frame a porcelain complexioned face with a delicate bone structure and lovely vivid blue-green eyes.

 Even Thomas had to admit that she was a beautiful woman. Lady Mary, widely considered to be the great beauty of the Crawley family (though Thomas personally felt that the most beautiful Crawley sister, inside and out, had been Lady Sibyl), would’ve been given a run for her money next to the Duchess of Crowborough.

 Philip Somerset had, above all, an eye and a passion for all things beautiful – whether animate or inanimate, having physical form or formless – naturally he would never have chosen any woman less than gorgeous to be his wife.

 Every last one of the English heiresses that Philip’s mother had tried to get him to court during their summer had been systematically rejected by him for one reason or another - “too desperate”, “too sycophantic”, “an annoying voice”, “has never read a book in her life”, “her eyes are unnerving, they’re too far apart”, “insufferably boring”, “too old – why on earth would I ever be desperate enough to marry an old spinster five years my senior?”, “just plain odd, and not even in an interesting way”, “decent looking but cotton for brains” - but no reason quite so common as the women being too unattractive.

 “Life is difficult enough even when you’re not ugly. The more natural advantages one has the better,” Philip had glibly declared in regards to the children that he would be expected to have.

 With so few heiresses around due to primogeniture, Thomas would’ve thought he’d be less particular. But then again, Philip had also been one of very few eligible young dukes in the Empire and that made the nobleman worth ten times his weight in gold and was therefore entitled to be as picky as he pleased.

 A luncheon with one particular young heiress and their respective mothers had led Philip to disdainfully proclaim to Thomas upon his return: “It would be a disservice to the human race to allow that creature to reproduce. I told Mother I’d sooner jump into the Thames than marry her. Let preserving the estate be Uncle Richard’s problem.”

 Thomas had soon come to the conclusion that Philip was just honing in on every minor (and not so minor) flaw as an excuse to drag his feet as long as possible. He’d been barely twenty-two years old and homosexual to boot, of course he’d been avoiding marriage like the plague.

 By the time Philip had written to him to say that his mother had washed her hands of him and told him that he would have to go stay with his aunt in New York and find an American heiress Thomas wasn’t surprised. Philip had confessed that he was relieved in a way.

 At least when he was sent away to New York his mother would have to stay at Crowborough to oversee the estate and Philip would be free to chose the wife who possessed “the least of many evils” for himself without her meddling. He’d also admitted that he _ha_ _d_ genuinely hoped that he might have found someone tolerable among the peerage because it would have been far less work for the family to shape a young woman of noble birth and upbringing into a duchess than an American and that less aspersions would be cast upon her if she was at least one of their own class.

 Thomas had overheard a conversation between the Countess and the Dowager after the news of the Titanic had reached them, saying that they intended to push for Lady Mary to become the heiress to Downton Abbey and had hurried to send a telegram to inform Philip of it that same day. The Duke had never really had much of any complaint to make of Lady Mary so surely she qualified as Philip’s “least of many evils”. He’d been so pleased to think that he might have found the solution to Philip’s dilemma, and it would’ve then seemed a most natural thing for Philip to offer him a position as his valet.

 Oh, but the best laid plans really did often go awry. It was the story Thomas’ life in a nutshell.

 The Duchess abandoned her brief study of the great house to smile amiably as the Earl came forward to meet her. The Countess returned to her husband’s side as Lady Edith moved to stand beside the Duchess.

 “Sorry we’ve kept you all waiting. The train came late,” the Countess told her husband and Carson.

 “Yes, I figured as much,” Lord Grantham replied.

 “Helena, this is my father, the Earl of Grantham,” Lady Edith introduced, and the two woman really must have been friends if the Duchess allowed her to call her by her Christian name. “Papa, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Crowborough.”

 “How do you do, Lord Grantham,” The Duchess – Helena, though it felt strange for Thomas to even think of her as such – said cordially, extending her hand carefully. “It’s so nice to finally put faces to the names. Edith has told me so much about all of you.”

 And yes, that was definitely an American accent. The Duchess didn’t have that simpering way of speaking that often characterized the Countess, however. It was a warm and friendly voice but also very grounded and reserved somehow.

 “Welcome to Downton, Duchess,” Lord Grantham said graciously, coming forward to take her offered hand.

 Recognizing their cue, Carson, Thomas and the male servants inclined their heads and Mrs. Hughes, the lady’s maids and the housemaids curtsied.

 “It’s kind of you both to have me, especially on such short notice,” the Duchess said with a slightly apologetic glance at the Earl and his wife.

 “It was such a spur of the moment decision for her to visit that Helena was worried she would be imposing on us,” Edith explained.

 “Oh, not at all, Duchess,” the Countess insisted warmly, “It’s so kind of you to take an interest in Downton.”

 “My husband spoke highly of it’s architectural interest and I was curious. He also mentioned that you have a very beautiful home and I see that he didn’t exaggerate,” the Duchess added charmingly.

 “And how is the Duke?” the Lady Grantham inquired politely. “It’s been quite a number of years since we’ve seen him.”

 “He’s very well,” The Duchess replied. “He tends to prefer to travel more than attend the season these days, that’s probably why you haven’t seen him. I have to practically drag the Duke kicking and screaming to get him to go to a party. It’s a small miracle that he shows for his own birthday parties,” she joked, and everyone that wasn’t a servant chuckled.

 And wasn’t that a dignified picture Philip’s wife had just painted, Thomas thought.

 “The Duke asked me to give you his regards,” The Duchess continued. “He’d wanted to come but unfortunately our lawyer has him tied up with some business still.”

 “That’s a shame. We’d been looking forward to catching up with the Duke again,” the Countess said, and Thomas had to give her credit for how sincere she sounded. Lord Grantham fortunately managed to at least stay blank-faced at that.

 “Then you must come and visit us at Crowborough sometime,” the Duchess said enthusiastically and then paused thoughtfully. “Have either of you visited Crowborough before? I can’t recall.”

 “I haven’t, no,” Lady Grantham answered. “I’m not sure about my husband. What about you, Robert?”

 “Oh, I’ve actually been several times,” The Earl replied lightly, “though the last time was nearly twenty years ago. The Duke’s father and grandfather used to have large shooting parties every year back in the day. I can still remember attending them with my father when I was young. Perhaps the Duke doesn’t care as much for hunting as they did though.”

 The implication that perhaps Philip still held such hunting parties but simply didn’t invite Lord Grantham hung unsaid in the air.

 The Duchess seemed to deliberate before deciding, “You know, I really don’t think he cares all that much for hunting. The Duke still attends the odd hunting party but mostly he doesn’t bother with them. When he does hunt on the estate it tends to be a rather impromptu affair with a few guests who are in the mood for it. He by far prefers gallivanting all over Sussex on horseback to hunting.” Amusement clung to that last remark.

 Thomas couldn’t help but listen to these little tidbits of Philip’s everyday life at Crowborough with interest. Crowborough Castle had always been something of an abstraction to Thomas, an Impressionist version of Philip’s mysterious ancestral home that had been gradually painted in vague passing detail in his mind’s eye by Philip’s letters of the things he did there all day and of the various people that came and went from it. And Thomas had once so hoped he would get to go there himself someday as Philip’s valet and spend his life with him. What a foolish dreamer he’d been.

 “Really?” Lady Edith asked in bemusement. “Doing what?”

 “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” the Duchess said with a dismissive little wave of her hand. “Taking in the countryside I suppose. Occasionally he’ll call the house saying he’s found some charming little seaside village he wants to stay overnight in and he’ll be back tomorrow.” She shrugged. “I’m a decent horsewoman but nothing like the Duke. He knows I can’t keep up with him on such long rides so he doesn’t ask me if I’d like to go with him anymore. I’d much rather view the country from the comfort of the car personally.”

 Thomas wondered what or, more likely, _who_ was gaining Philip’s attention on his country jaunts.

 “I quite agree. And speaking of comfort,” the Countess added, “you must both be worn out, come on in. It must almost be seven o’clock by now, I’m sure you’d like a bit of time to relax before dinner.” She turned to lead them towards the house.

 “I’m just going to run up to the nursery and see Marigold and the others for a bit before I get ready for dinner,” Lady Edith said, smiling at the prospect of seeing the children, no doubt, and Marigold in particular.

 As sweet as Lady Edith’s overwhelming love for Miss Marigold was, Thomas thought someone ought to warn her not to wear her affection for the girl quite so openly. Surely Thomas couldn’t have been the only one to have seen photographs of Lady Edith as a child and to have noticed a certain resemblance.

 “Oh,” the Duchess brightened, “I’ll come with you. I’d should like to see Marigold again and meet your niece and nephew...and I think they’ll likely be in bed by the time dinner is over.”

 “The children would have liked to come down and meet you, Duchess, but it was their dinner time,” the Countess explained.

 “Is that where Tom is, with the children?” Lady Edith asked as she passed through the front door into the house.

 “Tom said he was going to visit some of the farms this afternoon,” Lord Grantham responded. “He’s been gone for several hours now so he should be back soon. He said he’d return by dinner.”

 Once the family and their guest was in the front hall, Carson lead the procession of servants back inside but for Thomas and Andy. The two men made their way over to the motor car where the chauffeur had unloaded all of the luggage...and it seemed the man had known what he was doing when he had chosen one of the older motor cars for the journey. The car was a model from the early 1910s and bore a rather broad and boxy resemblance to an old-fashioned black coach and it had room aplenty for luggage on top of the car and on the back of it. And that room had, apparently, very much been needed.

 Since Lady Edith frequently went back and forth between Downton and London these days she had taken to leaving a part of her wardrobe in the city so she didn’t need to carry as much luggage. As a result only one valise belonged to her. As for the remaining steamer trunk, six large matching suitcases, and three valises, they must have all belonged to the Duchess. Thomas and Andy exchanged looks.

  _Crikey, Philip, your wife is even worse than you,_ Thomas thought with a mental groan.

 “Well, I guess this is what is what happens when ladies have to change their clothes five times a day,” Andy joked, moving to get a firm grip on the steamer trunk and lifting. “Ugh, Mr. Barrow, I think Her Grace may have packed rocks in this one.”

 Thomas frowned, “Want me to take the other end then?” Honestly, of all the times to be down to only one footman.

 “I can manage,” Andy insisted with a small huff of exertion and started into the house.

 “I’ll put the rest of them in the foyer for you while you’re gone, Mr. Barrow,” the chauffeur told him.

 Thomas nodded, “Thank you.” He moved to pick up the two largest suitcases and entered the front hall just as Carson rang the dressing gong.

 Seven o’clock. One hour until dinner.

 The Countess, Lady Edith and the Duchess were still standing in the foyer talking about who knew what when the loud sound suddenly galvanized the dallying ladies into moving towards the stairs.

 “Duchess, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re unaccompanied by a lady’s maid,” the Countess began a bit tentatively.

 “Oh, yes,” the Duchess said with an unconcerned wave of her hand. “She was feeling unwell when I was to leave so I insisted she stay behind and rest. I’m sure I’ll manage.” She started up the stairs and the other women followed.

 “My daughter, Mary’s, lady’s maid didn’t go with her on her honeymoon and I’m sure she would be happy to look after you while you’re here,” Lady Grantham offered.

 “Oh, I wouldn’t want to cause too much bother,” the Duchess began hesitantly, slowing to a stop on the landing.

 “Nonsense. It’s no bother at all,” the Countess insisted. “I’ll send Anna up to your room shortly.”

 “Thank you then, Lady Grantham. I’m much obliged,” the Duchess said graciously. “And I must say I’m sorry I won’t get to meet Lady Mary. My sister-in-law, Lady Charlotte, always has such interesting things to say about her.”

 Given that Philip had once told Thomas that his sister Charlotte couldn’t stand Lady Mary, he had to wonder as he passed them carefully on his way up the stairs with the suitcases if the Duchess had meant that as an oblique insult. Not to mention the things that Lady Edith must have had to say about her sister. Thomas wondered what, if anything, Philip had had to say to his wife about the woman that he had once played suitor to.

 Arriving in one of the best guest rooms – the very same room in fact that Thomas had once sat on the bed of and kissed the Duchess’ husband – he set the suitcases down next to the trunk left behind by Andy and hurried back to collect the next set of luggage.

 He still needed to run up to the attic quickly and change his sweaty dress shirt at the very least before setting the dining room table for dinner. Thomas sensed it would be a long time before he’d be getting to enjoying a single drag of a cigarette that evening.

~*~*~*~

 The light of three highly polished silver candelabras burned brightly on the dining room table beneath the glittering chandelier, the crystal glassware and vases glinted in the candlelight and the scent of the freshly cut rose bouquets filled the air as Thomas stood posture perfect next to Andy awaiting the appearance of the remaining diners. Lord and Lady Grantham had arrived five minutes early for dinner and had already been comfortably seated across from each other at the centre of the table while Carson had taken his customary position standing behind the Earl.

 Just three more members of their party yet to arrive. Theirs may not have been a large party but at least the presentation was on point.

 Lord Grantham had informed he and Carson at breakfast that his mother wouldn’t be able to attend dinner due to a prior engagement. Thomas wondered if the Dowager Countess had simply refused to come. She’d been perhaps even less pleased by the outcome of Philip’s visit to Downton than her son had, though more for the loss of Lady Mary’s opportunity to marry above her station due to her father’s stubborn unwillingness to make her his heiress, and she was certainly one to hold a grudge, even against someone who was merely associated with a person she held in contempt.

 Thomas regretted the absence of Lady Violet’s sharp tongue already, she always managed to make these dinners a far less boring affair.

 Just then Lady Edith and the Duchess made their entrance and Lord and Lady Grantham rose to receive their guest. Lady Edith’s dress was one Thomas seen her wear several times in the last few years: a pale pink drop-waist, calf-length frock with gold beading, cream coloured elbow-length gloves and fine straps that left her shoulders bared.

 It was the Duchess’ attire that drew every eye in the room though. If ever there was a gown that had drawn its inspiration from an evening star Thomas would’ve said it was perhaps this one. It was a floor length, off-the-shoulder silver-white silk sheath dress worn with the requisite white elbow-length gloves. Fine short silver strands fell like a shimmering waterfall of stardust from the sleeves and bodice. A delicate pattern of silver-white leaves and roses wreathed the neckline of the dress and continued down the length of the dress. It was belted at the waist with a narrow matching cincture, so unlike the current fashion of loose dresses. Thomas had to admit she was undeniably striking.

 The Duchess’ soft blonde curls were piled on her head and held in place by a glittering silver hair ornament with an intricacy that could only have come from very long hair or a very generous hair piece. But from the way that her hair had been pined back beneath her hat when she’d first arrived, Thomas thought she must have had long hair. He was a bit surprised that the Duchess didn’t sport the bobbed hair that was so popular among women the last few years given that everything else about her was so perfectly stylish. Not that there was anything unfashionable about her hair; in fact Thomas thought there was a lush elegance about her elaborately up-swept hair that a bob cut just couldn’t hold a candle to.

 She no doubt looked very impressive standing next to Philip’s equally elegant form, like she belonged there.

 “My, what a stunning dress, Duchess,” the Countess exclaimed, a bit wide-eyed. “Wherever did you get it?”

 “Oh, thank you,” she demurred, as Thomas and Andy sprung into orderly motion to pull out the Duchess’ and Lady Edith’s chairs. “I picked it up in Paris when we went in the spring.”

 The Duchess smoothly took her place of honour on the Earl’s right-hand side as Andy settled Lady Edith across from her and next to the Countess. Lord and Lady Grantham simultaneously resumed their seats and Thomas and Andy removed themselves with practised unobtrusiveness to their stand-by positions by the sideboard.

 “It’s been a few years since I’ve had a chance to visit Paris,” the Countess admitted. “How was it?”

 “Beautiful, as always, and doing much better now after the war,” the Duchess replied. “Though in some ways they’re recovering.”

 Thomas honestly hadn’t given much thought to the current state of France or Paris in the aftermath of the war; he’d been too bloody relieved to have gotten himself out of there in the first place.

 Just then Tom Branson appeared with rapid steps through the doorway, breathing a bit heavily.

 “I’m sorry I’m late,” he panted slightly as Andy moved to pull out the chair on the Countess’ other side. “Things took a bit longer than expected.”

 “Oh no, you’re just in time,” Lord Grantham reassured him lightly. Thomas was certain it was at least two minutes past eight.

 Branson started towards his chair but then froze as he caught sight of the Duchess, standing awkwardly in place. Thomas supposed if he’d any interest in women he might’ve had a difficult time preventing himself from being startled by her beauty, too.

 “Helena, this is my brother-in-law, Tom Branson,” Lady Edith introduced cheerfully and Branson seemed to come back to himself enough to stride over to where the Duchess was sitting. “Tom, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Crowborough.”

 To Thomas’ surprise she stood to meet him, extending a gloved hand with a small smile.

 “How do you do, Mr. Branson?”

 Branson took her hand with a somewhat nervous smile, “...How do you do, Duchess? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 The Duchess’ smile grew, “And you, as well.” She paused as she withdrew her hand, expression sobering. “Mr. Branson -”

 “Oh, Tom is fine, if you like,” Branson put in with an easy grin.

 “Tom then,” the Duchess amended with a gracious smile that faltered in the next moment. “I...was very sorry to hear about the loss of your wife...and your daughter,” she added gravely, as she looked to Lord and Lady Grantham.

 Branson’s grin fell away into a sad smile, “Thank you, Duchess.”

 The Earl’s eyes reflected his sorrow as he replied politely, “That’s very kind of you, Duchess, thank you.”

 “My husband sends his sympathies for Lady Sybil as well and his apologies that he’s not able to give them in person,” she continued quietly.

 “It was kind of him to think of us,” the Countess managed cordially through barely veiled heartache.

 The Duchess spoke quietly, “It’s such a terrible tragedy to lose someone so young so unexpectedly...but at least your granddaughter must be a great source of comfort for you.” Lord and Lady Grantham’s sadness seemed to soften at the mention of Miss Sybbie and she smiled at Branson, explaining, “I had the pleasure of meeting your charming daughter briefly before dinner.”

 Branson’s earnest smile was still tinged with grief even as it grew. “Sybbie’s everything to me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

 “I understand entirely,” the Duchess agreed sincerely, as she sank down onto her chair. “I can scarcely be away from my own children for a day without missing them. Your Sybbie reminds me of my oldest daughter, Clara. She’s quite spirited. She’ll be giving you a run for your money in no time, no doubt.”

 Branson chuckled, adding proudly, “Oh, she already does. She’s a right scalawag, my Sybbie.”

 The Duchess looked amusedly up at him and Thomas found himself momentarily wondering just how cross Philip would be if his wife left him for a former chauffeur. The thought made him bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

 Seeming to take the visual cue from the Duchess resuming her seat, Branson excused himself to find his own chair a bit reluctantly. At a small gesture from Lord Grantham, Carson took up the appropriate wine decanter and began to make his way around the table. Finally able to start serving now that everyone was accounted for, Andy lifted the soup tureen containing the first of what had been intended to be ten courses, now nine, setting it on a plate as he made his way over to their guest of honour.

 Mrs Patmore and Daisy had prepared an hors d’oeuvre course to be served in the drawing room before dinner but they’d been forced to skip it thanks to the train arriving late and the Duchess and Lady Edith stopping off to visit the children in the nursery. Mrs Patmore was a bit annoyed that her hard work on the intricate bits of food would go to waste but Thomas’ stomach could practically taste the silver lining already.

 “Do you have many children, Duchess?” Lady Grantham asked, taking her first sip of wine.

 “We have four,” she stated as Andy reached over her shoulder to carefully ladle soup into her bowl. “Two boys and two girls.”

 Philip, the father of four children? Thomas could scarcely imagine it.

 Lady Edith perked up at this. “I do hope you remembered to bring pictures,” she enthused to the Duchess. “Mama, you have to see them! They’re absolutely adorable.”

 “I did bring pictures but I left them in my room,” the Duchess informed, taking a taste of the soup.

 “Oh, good,” Edith paused to sip at her wine as Andy came around the table to serve her. “We’ll send Anna for them after dinner.”

 Thomas wondered if he would be able to get a peek at the pictures. How much might Philip’s children resemble him? Could there be an adorable little boy out there somewhere that looked like a younger version of the Duke?

 The Countess smiled warmly, “How old are they?”

 “Our oldest, Nicholas, is ten. The girls, Clara and Cassie, are five and four, though Clara will be six next month. And our youngest, Charlie, is two.”

 Philip had gotten his heir on the first try and yet still had had three more children? Interesting. Maybe the Duchess had wanted more children because Thomas couldn’t imagine Philip wanting to have sex with a woman any more than was necessary. He’d certainly never shown any interest in it in the past.

  _[“Have you ever even been with a woman?” Thomas asked curiously as he lay on his side, head propped up on his hand and naked limbs entangled in the silk bed sheets._

  _Philip pulled a face, looking up at him from where he lay beside him, “What would I do a thing like that for?”_

  _Thomas couldn’t help but chuckle at his all too visible discomfort, running feather-light fingertips over the smooth skin of the Duke’s bicep as he glanced knowingly at him, “So that’s a no?”_

  _Philip’s arm flinched away slightly from the ticklish touch, smiling, before settling back beneath Thomas’ teasing fingers. “A few of my mates back at Oxford got the brilliant idea to drag me to a brothel with them one Christmas break in London. I told them that I didn’t fancy dying of venereal disease and that when I wanted sex I certainly didn’t need to pay for it.” He paused, letting his fingers caress Thomas’ cheek softly, “Which has proved true to this day.”_

  _Thomas leaned into his touch as he frowned, “But what happens when you get married?”_

  _Philip scoffed as Thomas caught his wrist in his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm, “I’ll just have to lie back and think of England.”_

  _Thomas smirked, taking in the faint scent of Philip’s expensive cologne appreciatively as he pressed his lips to the inside of his wrist, “So you’re going to make her do all the work?”_

  _Philip met his gaze, hazel eyes alight in amusement as he retorted, “I’m a duke, it’s my birthright to have other people do all the work.” His other hand reached to deliver a playful smack to Thomas’ sheet-covered hip, “So get to it then.”_

  _Thomas raised his eyebrows, chuckling under his breath, “As you wish, Your Grace.”_

  _He sat up and swiftly pulled away the sheet concealing what remained of Philip’s modesty and his own with one sharp tug. It landed with a soft thud on the floor beside the bed as Thomas crawled slowly over to Philip, pushing his knee between bare, pliant thighs. He planted both hands on either side of the Duke, leaning down over him as Philip lay watching him with darkening eyes._

  _Bracing his weight on his elbows, Thomas lowered his head, letting the warmth of his breath mingle with Philip’s and brushed his lips teasingly over his mouth until Philip’s lips met his, warm and soft. He traced Philip’s plump bottom lip with the tip of his tongue then along the seam of his mouth, coaxing his lips to part. Thomas licked gently into his mouth as they did. Philip’s warm hands rested on his shoulders before gliding along them up the sides of his neck and threading his fingers lightly into the hair at the base of his neck. Thomas shuddered pleasantly as Philip ran his hands through his hair, letting his blunt nails scrape over his scalp, as he opened his mouth further to accept the slick slide of Thomas’ tongue against his own._

  _Shifting his weight onto one arm, Thomas let his other hand travel down the length of Philip’s exposed throat, gripping it lightly and pressing with his thumb to tilt Philip’s head to the side as he abandoned Philip’s lips to press hot open-mouthed kisses to his throbbing pulse point. He caressed it roughly with the flat of his tongue until Philip was panting and arching up into him._

  _Thomas felt the heat of Philip’s knee where it brushed his thigh as Philip bent his outer leg and skimmed his hand down Philip’s rapidly rising and falling chest, raking his fingers through the soft chest hair, and over his taut stomach and lean hip until his hand found that warm point of contact. Pushing up and sitting back, Thomas shifted until he was kneeling between Philip’s legs._

  _Meeting the Duke’s darkly intent gaze, he rested his hands lightly on Philip’s knees, curling them around the back of his knees to bend them further before sliding his hands up and over Philip’s thighs. With a teasing smile, Thomas slowly slid his hands down the silky insides of Philip’s thighs, pushing them further apart and relishing the soft exhale of breath that the Duke released. Caressing the pale skin, he bent to mouth ardent kisses behind his questing hands, licking and nipping at the pinkening flesh until Philip’s legs began to tremble under his ministrations._

  _"Thomas...” Philip murmured, hands clutching tightly at the sheet. “Please...”_

  _Deciding to take pity on him after deliberately ignoring the neediest part of him, Thomas fumbled awkwardly for a few moments to find the vial of oil that they’d left somewhere on the bed. Finding it, Thomas’ slick fingers enclosed over the heat of Philip’s half-swollen arousal, stroking him to further hardness. His thumb swept up over his tip and found the sweet spot below his engorged head, massaging the tender vein he found there until Philip’s hips were bucking up into his hand. Licking his lips, Thomas bent to swirl his tongue over the liquid beading at his tip, opening his mouth to suck gently at him._

  _“Oh...” Philip breathed out, a moan escaping his lips. “Oh God...England...!”_

  _At this, Thomas’ head popped up abruptly to stare at Philip, nonplussed, and Philip burst out into uncontrollable gales of laughter at Thomas’ expression._

  _“What? I’m just practicing,” he choked out, grinning his irresistibly boyish grin up at him as he shook with mirth. Thomas shook his head in disbelief, wanting to be annoyed, but couldn’t prevent himself from smiling so widely his cheeks almost hurt._

  _“You’re ridiculous,” Thomas chuckled._

  _Philip’s cheeks were flushed with Thomas’ attentions but if he was still able to make jokes with Thomas’ mouth on his prick, he obviously needed to step up his game._

  _“Enough of that,” he commanded evenly, reaching down to seize Philip’s hips with a sudden possessiveness that cut off the Duke’s laughter with a bitten-off gasp, pulling him in closer. “The only name I want to hear you cry out is mine.”_

  _Philip’s eyes widened momentarily, startled, then those pretty cherry-red lips curled into a sharply challenging smirk as he sat up to speak against Thomas’ lips._

  _“Make me then.”]_

 “Mr Barrow...” Thomas heard Andy say, barely above a whisper, and he hoped his face didn’t look as warm as it felt.

 His head fixed forward, he glanced out of the corner of his eye to find Andy looking expectantly at him and Carson eyeing him with the consternation of a conductor whose lead musician had missed his cue in front of an audience. Thomas rapidly studied the table and realized the family and their guest would be finished with their soup in no more than a few minutes. Damn it. They needed to hurry and fetch the fish course.

  _Some things never change_ , Thomas thought ruefully as he and Andy made themselves as unnoticeable as possible and hurried down to the kitchen to collect the next course. Even when he wasn’t there, Philip had always had a way of being distracting to his ability to serve anyone but him.

 A pair of trays covered by gleaming serving cloches awaited them as Thomas and Andy came into the kitchen. Thomas picked it up quickly, starting for the door but turned back sharply on his heel when he realized Andy wasn’t following. The young man had paused to make awkward small talk with Daisy. Great. Thomas just barely managed not to roll his eyes at the artlessness of their exchange.

 “Andy,” he called out evenly. “Later.”

 “Ah, right,” the footman murmured to himself and was swiftly on Thomas’ heels as he mounted the stairs and reentered the dining room.

 Carson looked to be nearly finished decanting the wine for the fish just as they set the platters down on the sideboard. They smoothly cleared away the soup bowls, leaving a dinner plate behind for the next course, before removing the covers from the serving trays, each of which held a different type of fish.

 Thomas had made it around to Lady Edith with his platter when she gave him a curious look as he served her the smoked salmon. She glanced at the other side of the table where Andy was serving grilled halibut to the Duchess and then, brow furrowing slightly, looked around the room.

 “Is Molesley not here?” Lady Edith asked in bemusement.

 “No,” Lord Grantham replied. “He was offered a position as a school master and tendered his resignation while you were in London.”

 “Oh,” Lady Edith blinked in surprise a moment before smiling. “Well, how wonderful for him.” She broke off thoughtfully. “Will we be hiring a new footman then?”

 The Earl looked vaguely uncomfortable, “Perhaps. We haven’t yet decided.” He turned his attention to drinking his wine but his daughter still looked pensive.

 “Well, what’s to decide?” she interposed matter-of-factly. “Eventually Barrow will be moving on and then we’ll be down to one footman. Won’t that be too hard on Carson?”

 “Edith,” the Countess chided gently, “this isn’t fitting dinner conversation. I apologize, Duchess.”

 “Oh, no need,” the Duchess assured lightly. “I quite understand. We’ve been looking for a new butler for some time now, but to no avail.” She added conversationally.

 Thomas’ head turned towards her before he could stop himself. He corrected it immediately but Carson’s keen eyes had already caught the movement.

  _Philip is looking for a butler?_ Thomas thought, interest piqued despite himself. He’d only been looking at Yorkshire postings so he’d had no idea.

 “Oh?” Lord Grantham looked at her with interest. “Not enough qualified applicants?”

 “Well, yes, there is that,” the Duchess concurred with a slight frown. “There seem to be less and less people wanting to work in service since the war ended.” She paused for a beat before continuing. “The Duke and our current butler also have rather particular standards when it comes to finding a replacement.”

 “So you still have a butler then?” Lady Grantham inquired a bit uncertainly, as she severed a bite of her salmon.

 “Yes, Mr. Astley,” she replied sedately, taking a drink of her wine, “but he’s gotten on with age and his health has suffered in the last few years. He’s really very overdue for retirement, the poor man. I’m told he spends half the day nodding off in his office now and he’s in so much pain from gout, yet he’ll still push himself to look after us.” She sighed, carefully cutting a small piece of halibut. “He’s so devoted to the family that the Duke had to order him to stop coming upstairs to attend to us before he would give in, but he’s still unhappy about it. We had offered him retirement before the war and several times after that but he preferred to stay on, said he liked being busy and didn’t want to leave the family. He was still quite healthy and strong for his age until recently.”

 “He sounds like our Carson,” Edith smiled faintly.

 “Yes, I sometimes fear we’d be quite lost without Carson at the helm,” Lord Grantham declared, then paused momentarily. Behind him, Carson, in his restrained way, was looking nearly as pleased as he had on his wedding day.

 As Thomas leaned over to offer the Earl the salmon platter he thought he detected a certain glint in Lord Grantham’s eye that he knew all too well. The look of a man who was up to something.

 Serving himself a piece of salmon, the Earl continued casually, “Out of curiosity, what manner of butler are you and the Duke looking for?”

  _Oh, hell,_ Thomas thought. _I knew it._

 Finished serving for now, he set the platter down silently on the sideboard, recovered it and resumed standing at attention. Shortly after, Andy finished his round and collected the cover for his platter, replacing it and disappearing down the stairs with it.

 “Well, the Duke is adamant that he not be over fifty, says he doesn’t want to hire a new butler only to have to replace him in a few years when he retires,” the Duchess explained.

 “Understandable,” Lord Grantham maintained. “I would aim to do the same if, when, God forbid, it was necessary to replace Carson.”

 She hesitated, frowning slightly, “Yes, but because of that he’s turned down several applications from older but very experienced butlers. He’s also turned down all of the younger applicants because he claims they’re too inexperienced to be able to run a house the size of Crowborough. There were one or two that I thought were all right. They were both decently experienced and not too old, but he said he didn’t like them. He says that a butler sets the tone for the entire household and that he couldn’t possibly hire someone he felt an aversion to.”

 Well, it seemed Philip was just as selective as ever he’d been, but it surprised Thomas that his wife would speak so openly about it to people she barely knew. Was it her being American that made her less circumspect or just her personality?

 Certainly he’d observed, when he’d gone to New York with Lord Grantham years ago, that many of the people there had had a great deal less of the reserve that he was accustomed to as an Englishman. While Thomas had found that openness largely refreshing after a lifetime of having to mind his p’s and q’s as a member of the working class, somehow he doubted that Philip would greatly appreciate that quality in his wife.

 The Duke, like many of his ilk, was skilled at keeping up polite yet interesting enough conversation about nothing of importance on a staggering variety of subjects while managing to steer clear of anything too controversial or personal. Unless, of course, he was in one of his provocative moods. Had he been here, Thomas was sure he would’ve long ago steered the conversation in a different direction.

 “I must admit, Duchess, that I’ve found that to be quite true,” Lord Grantham asserted. “I could never entrust just anyone with the running of my home.”

 “Perhaps he just hasn’t found the right person yet,” Lady Edith offered her friend conciliatorily.

 Thomas wasn’t sure there was such a thing as a _right person_ for Philip Somerset.

 The Duchess met her eyes with a sigh, a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice, “At this point, I think the Duke is just being unnecessarily picky because he doesn’t like the idea of someone other than Mr. Astley running Crowborough.” She paused, swirling the wine in her glass thoughtfully. “Men don’t really take well to change, do they? And Astley has been with the family since his grandfather’s time. I’m told he’s worked for the Somersets since he was twelve years old, and he’s nearly eighty now so he’s been a permanent fixture for a long time. The Duke jokes that Mr. Astley is almost more of a Somerset than he is.”

 “It certainly sounds that way,” Lady Edith put in.

 The Duchess rested her chin on her loosely balled fist, delicate jaw setting resolutely, “He’s being so difficult about it that I’m beginning to think that I may have to just hire someone on my own and let him be annoyed with me for a while. Things really can’t be allowed to go on as they have for much longer. For Mr. Astley’s health, if nothing else.”

 “Really?” Lady Edith blinked, then suddenly raised her head excitedly. “Actually, I may have an idea on that front – which you’re in no way obligated to pursue, of course,” she interjected quickly, “but, our under butler, Barrow, has actually been looking to move on to a position as a butler for the last while now.”

 Thomas thought he felt his heart skip a beat. Lord Grantham and Carson exchanged glances.

 The Duchess brows drew together in interest, “Really? Which one is...?” Her gaze traveled over Andy as he returned from downstairs to settle on Thomas.

 “Oh, forgive me,” Lady Edith murmured before turning in her seat towards him. “Helena, this is Barrow.”

  _Oh, hell,_ Thomas thought as he took a step forward, _Can I really do this?_

 Bright blue eyes locked on him appraisingly, “How do you do, Mr Barrow?”

 “How do you do, Your Grace?” he returned, managing to incline his head composedly despite his thundering heart.

 Lady Edith turned back to the Duchess as she proclaimed, “As you can see Barrow is well under fifty years of age and he’s worked for us, for a great house, for fifteen years minus the war years. I’m sure both my parents and Carson can vouch for the fact that Barrow is an excellent worker as well as myself. And I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful he is with the children. They simply adore him and run him ragged all day long wanting piggy back rides and for him to play with them.” She smiled as she spoke the latter part and then sobered, “I must also add that I very likely wouldn’t be alive today if not for Barrow. He walked though fire to carry me to safety when my room once caught ablaze at night, so he’s also very brave.”

 She directed a softly grateful smile at Thomas and he found himself ducking his head slightly with unexpected shyness.

 “Goodness, that’s quite the recommendation!” the Duchess exclaimed, her gaze on Thomas having grown warmer at her friend’s words. “And there can be no greater character reference than the adoration of children in my book. I will need to speak further to Lord and Lady Grantham and Mr Carson, of course, if only to placate my husband, but would you be interested in coming to work for us, Mr Barrow?”

  _Christ, is this really happening or am I dreaming?_

 His head was starting to feel so light that he was vaguely amazed that it was still attached to his neck and not floating somewhere up by the ceiling.

 “It would be an honour, Your Grace,” Thomas answered with a fitting amount of gravity. “However, I wonder if I might have some time to consider it?”

 The Earl and Carson eyed him intently at this. Andy, who should have been removing the dirty dishes from the soup course and the salmon platter back downstairs, regarded him curiously.

 The Duchess seemed momentarily taken aback before replying evenly, “Yes, of course, you can have until I leave to decide.”

 “Thank you, Your Grace,” Thomas inclined his head again before turning to Lord and Lady Grantham in explanation. “My Lord, Milady, I’m not sure if Mr Carson had a chance to tell you but I received a job offering this morning for a position I interviewed for a few weeks ago.”

 “Oh?” the Countess’ eyebrows raised, then she smiled kindly. “Congratulations, Barrow, on two offers in one day, no less.”

 “Yes, congratulations, Barrow. You deserve it,” Lady Edith added warmly.

 “Thank you, Milady, Lady Edith,” Thomas replied, hoping he didn’t sound as bashful as he felt in the face of such rare praise.

 “Well done, Barrow,” Lord Grantham declared. “May I ask whom the position is with?”

 “Lord and Lady Stiles of Dunnington, but I haven’t had a chance to reply yet. I’d wanted to ask whether or not you would need me to work out my notice.”

 “When would they like you to begin?”

 “His Lordship has asked if I can arrive on Sunday to start on Monday.”

 Lord Grantham nodded, “That shouldn’t be a problem. But I’m sure you’d like some time to consider the Duchess’ offer as well before you reply,” he added carefully, a hint of admonition in his voice.

 “Yes, of course, My Lord,” Thomas replied, too quickly, and moved to pick up the salmon platter. Taking his cue, Andy seamlessly followed suit, collecting the used dishes from the sideboard and following him downstairs.

 Thomas was perhaps never more relieved that it was nearly time to serve the main course than at that moment.

 ~*~*~*~

 It was well past eleven-thirty by the time Thomas was finally able to come downstairs for the night after clearing the dining room and drawing room and sink with relief into his chair in the servant’s hall with that day’s newspaper, trying to settle his jangled nerves.

 But he could scarcely glean any meaning out of the words in front of him over the unrelenting mental barrage of, _“What the hell am I going to do?”_

 He tried to push the thought away. It was late, he ought to go straight to bed but he already knew that he was too wired to sleep. Andy had, after sitting down for a brief cup of tea and a biscuit, said his good nights and vanished upstairs. Carson was still lurking somewhere upstairs.

 After dinner, the butler had stayed behind in the dining room to wait on his Lordship and Branson while they had their customary brandy and cigars and Thomas and Andy had gone on to the drawing room with the ladies. Anna had indeed been sent to procure the Duchess’ pictures of hers and Philip’s children but, to his disappointment, Thomas hadn’t been able to get close enough to see any of them. He’d been forced to just stand there and conceal his curiosity behind his servant’s blank while the Countess and Lady Edith cooed over them; it wasn’t as though someone of Thomas’ station had any business asking to see photographs of a Duchess’ children. After a while the Duchess had excused herself to go back to the dining room, to speak to Lord Grantham and Carson about Thomas no doubt. What he wouldn’t have given to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.

 In the Duchess’ absence, Lady Grantham told her daughter that the Earl had said that Philip’s wife “seems far too nice to be married to the Duke of Crowborough, but then the Duke seemed nice enough on first acquaintance, too”. Lady Edith had protested that she’d known the Duchess for a while now and she really was what she seemed to be. Even Philip, she’d added, had been nothing less than amiable towards her since she’d befriended his wife.

 Somehow Thomas didn’t think Philip would be half as friendly if his wife brought _Thomas_ home with her.

 Just then Carson walked in and Thomas forced himself to his aching feet along with Miss Baxter and Bates. The butler waved at them wordlessly to sit down and then seated himself tiredly at the head of the table, steaming cup of tea in hand.

Carson blew on his tea before gingerly taking a sip, glancing over at Thomas.

 “I must say, Mr Barrow, I’m surprised you didn’t immediately jump on the Duchess’ offer. To become the butler to a duke is a very rare opportunity,” he intoned mildly.

 Every head in the room lifted.

 “What’s this?” Baxter asked, looking up from the letter she’d been writing with interest. Thomas wondered if she still wrote to his sister after all these years, wondered if Baxter had written to tell her what Thomas had tried to do. Well, if she had it had already been a few weeks since his failed attempt and he’d yet to receive a letter. Thomas had never asked Baxter if she wrote to Laura about him, he honestly didn’t want to know. If she did, then his sister’s disregard of him would hurt even more.

 “It seems the Duke and Duchess of Crowborough are looking for a new butler and Her Grace has been generous enough to offer the position to Mr Barrow,” Carson explained.

 “Butler to a _duke and duchess_?” Baxter’s eyes widened and she smiled at him. “This really must be your lucky day, Mr Barrow. See? Good things do happen.”

 Thomas resisted the urge to scoff.

 Bates’ keen eyes rested on him from where he sat at the table reading the paper, “But why haven’t you accepted the position yet, Mr Barrow? That’s not like you.”

 “I received another job offer this morning,” Thomas informed him haughtily. “Surely I should take the time to consider which position would be better suited for me in the long run? Act in haste and repent at leisure, you know.”

 “Unless you’re holding out for a higher salary by letting Her Grace know that you’re in demand,” Bates suggested coolly. It wasn’t a question.

  _Cynical bugger._ _Can’t scratch my nose without him thinking I have some ulterior motive._

 Thomas smirked derisively, “Maybe I am, Mr Bates. What’s it to you? Can’t wait to find out how long it will be before you can all see the back of me? Don’t worry, I’ll be gone by Sunday at the latest.”

 Baxter frowned anxiously, eyes darting between the two men, as Bates opened his mouth to respond.

 “Enough,” Carson’s baritone interjected, low and final in its authority. “It’s Mr Barrow’s life and he has every right to choose whatever course of action he feels will be best for him.”

 “Thank you, Mr Carson,” he said, genuinely appreciative of the man for once. Just when he was about to leave Downton behind forever; figured. “Unless I’m needed, I’ll just turn in for the night.”

 “That’s fine,” the butler assented, taking a deep drinking of his tea. “Good night, Mr Barrow.”

 He stood, folding the paper and setting it on the table in Bates’ reach in case he wanted to read it.

 “Good night, Mr Carson, Miss Baxter...Mr Bates.”

~*~*~*~

 The gleam of light from the doorway of the servant’s hall was the only remaining illumination as Thomas crept silently down the stairs in his pajamas and housecoat, hair slightly damp from washing and falling unrestrained by pomade into his eyes. It was already past one in the morning but still his tired eyes refused to sleep. He was going to be miserable with exhaustion in the morning, no doubt. What else was new?

 To his surprise as he crossed the threshold of the servant’s hall, it wasn’t empty. Miss Baxter still sat in the same seat as earlier, letter nowhere to be seen, her dark head bent over the lace edging on a dress. He hoped she wasn’t still working herself up about that no good Coyle. The motion of her sewing needle halted as she looked up at him.

 “Mr Barrow, I thought you’d gone to bed.”

 “I couldn’t sleep. Why are you still up?”

 “I couldn’t sleep either, thought I’d get some mending done,” she paused, gesturing towards the small side in the corner of the room where a small white envelope sat. “Oh, Mr Carson said Her Grace gave him a note for you. It’s just over there. He said he didn’t want to disturb you in case you were already asleep.”

  _Well, t_ _hat was_ _un_ _usually considerate of him._

 The Carson he knew would never prioritize a servant’s needs over those of an aristocrat, especially someone as highly ranked as a duchess. Was he being nice to him because he knew that Thomas would soon be out of his hair for good?

 He strode over to pluck up the envelope, tearing it open and unfolding two sheets of thick cream stationary to scan the delicate flourish of the Duchess’ cursive across the page.

 “Well, that’s certainly something,” Thomas murmured with raised eyebrows.

 The salary offered was twice his current one, and a five percent raise would add up quickly. And a _full day and a half_ off of work every week – after over twenty years in service of only getting a half-day per week and one day off a month the thought off regularly having that much time for himself was almost mind-boggling. And _three days_ off with pay at Christmastime, how did they manage that? He’d never had a Christmas off in his entire working life with the exception of his furlough during the war. Sure, the Crawleys hired extra staff for the Servant’s Ball but their days were still never actually work-free.

 And had the Duchess really brought _that_ much luggage to stay for only two days? Imagine if she had intended to stay for a week.

 Not to mention, perhaps the most astounding of all: the Duchess had no intention of warning Philip of his arrival. If Thomas chose to go, the man would be completely blindsided for once. A mischievous smile played at his lips.

 “What is it?” Baxter asked curiously, breaking his reverie.

 “An official offer of employment,” he answered as he refolded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. “Apparently Mr Carson and Lord and Lady Grantham gave me a good recommendation.” A scoff. “That must have required lies of omission aplenty. They must really want to be rid of me.”

 Her brow knitted. “No one here wants to be rid of you, Mr Barrow, you mus’int think that way. The Crawley’s circumstances are what they are, it can’t be helped.”

 Thomas held up the letter, “Well, the Duke and Duchess don’t seem to be suffering from the same circumstances if this salary is anything to go by. It’s a lot more than what Lord and Lady Stiles are offering.” £120 more to be exact.

 “Well, that’s excellent. It’s a more prestigious position in a much larger household and will be more work for you so your salary should be higher. Will you accept the Duchess’ offer then?”

 A weight descended on Thomas’ chest, a pit of dread forming in his gut. “I’m not sure.”

 “You ought to be over the moon about getting an opportunity like this...so why aren’t you?” she set down her mending to study him in bemusement. “Unless you prefer to work for the Stileses instead? I’d thought that you didn’t sound very enthusiastic about working there after being accustomed to working in a great house with a large staff though, so surely working for Their Graces would be a happier fit for you?” She paused, staring with worry at the increasingly evident trepidation in Thomas’ face as he failed to answer. “...Or not? What’s bothering you, Mr Barrow?”

 He swallowed hard, tightening his grip unconsciously on the letter. “...On paper everything you said is true. I would much prefer to work at Crowborough Castle but...” He swallowed again, trying to get his suddenly dry throat to work.

 “But what?” her brow furrowed and she rose to stand in front of him, her voice gentle but intent as she looked into his pale face. “What is it, Thomas? You’re worrying me.”

 He felt something break in him a little at her use of his first name, like he was a boy again.

 Thomas raked his hair out of his eyes anxiously and finally got out tightly, “We can’t talk here.”

 He turned on his heel and left the hall. Baxter blinked a moment in surprise before following him down the hall into the boot room. Thomas flipped the light on and closed the door firmly behind them as she entered. She looked around the room nervously a moment. It distantly occurred to Thomas that had he been any man other than himself, it would have been highly inappropriate for Baxter to be alone with him in here at night.

 “What is it, Mr Barrow? What has you so concerned?”

 His breath caught in his throat. He forced his tightly pressed lips to open in a rush of breath.

 Thomas wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell someone.

 He realized he’d been wanting to tell someone for so long - ever since he’d stood teary-eyed in the deserted corridor outside Philip’s guest room in the wake of their break up – but had had no one in the world he could trust. Certainly not Sarah O’Brien.

 But this was Phyllis Baxter, his sister’s childhood best friend. She had forgiven him even when he’d been unforgivably horrible to her. She’d saved his life twice. She had been the one to find him hiding in the woods near her house, broken and bloody, at age fifteen after being discovered in bed with Peter Evans by his father, who had beaten him within an inch of his life and then thrown him out of the house for good. She’d been the only person who had listened to him as he sobbingly told her what had happened without a word of condemnation or disgust; not even his own sister had done that. And she’d been the one to tell him that the family she’d used to work for was looking for a hallboy and that he could give them her name as a reference. He might’ve been homeless and eventually dead in a ditch somewhere if it hadn’t been for Phyllis Baxter. She’d actually saved him thrice over.

 Thomas felt sick when he thought about the way he had treated her, how he had blackmailed her when she’d written to him for help and he’d gotten her the job at Downton.

 He honestly didn’t know why she cared about him so much. He’d certainly never given her any reason to. She should have despised him as much as everyone else did. No, she should have hated him _more_ than anyone else.

 Instead she was gazing up at him in concern as he tried to expel the words that were burning, bottled up inside of him.

 “I...I know the Duke.” he admitted in a hushed tone. He of all people knew how easy it was to eavesdrop on conversations in the boot room at night if its occupants spoke at a normal volume. “We were...we were...involved in the past.”

 “Involved?” Baxter echoed. “You mean, the Duke is like you?”

 “Yes.”

 “And you were together in the past?” Her brown eyes were wide.

 “We had an affair in the summer of 1911 when I went to London with the family for the season.”

 “You...had an affair with _a duke_?” Baxter was utterly stunned if the way her mouth was gaping was any indication. “A long-term affair?”

 “We still wrote to each other for nearly a year after I had to return to Downton at the end of the summer,” Thomas recounted haltingly, biting down on his lower lip and avoiding Baxter’s eyes. He pushed his hair away again in agitation, trying to get out the rest. His voice emerged again, thickening with emotion, “I thought...I thought he cared about me. I thought we would find a way to be together. But then when I finally got to see him again he just...broke it off without warning, said it wasn’t going to work, said that _we_ couldn’t work.” He pulled in a ragged breath, eyes stinging. “He...he came here pretending to court Lady Mary and stole back all of the letters that he’d written to me from my room and burned them right in front of me.”

 “Oh, Thomas...” Baxter whispered sadly. “You loved him?”

 A tear escaped his eye as he worked his aching throat. He had asked himself the same question many times over the years with varying results, searching for the answer that hurt him least and trying to make himself believe it.

 “At first I’d tried to convince myself that I’d only been using him for his position because I suppose it made it hurt less than admitting the truth to myself.” Thomas confessed, wiping at his eyes. “...But with time...I knew that I did love him, back then.”

 “And now?” she asked quietly, pulling her handkerchief out of her pocket and passing it to him.

 He gripped the cloth tightly, meeting her eyes, voice tremulous. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him thirteen years and...he betrayed me. He burned the letters he wrote me like they hadn’t meant _anything_ to him. Like _I_ didn’t mean anything to him. Then he left and never looked back and less than a year after that he married.”

 “I’m sorry, Thomas, that you had to go through that,” Baxter said, soft with compassion as he dried his eyes. “Does that mean that you’d rather take the job with the Stiles then?”

 “Well, no not really,” Thomas answered honestly, surprising himself somewhat as his voice steadied. “I probably should take it. It would be the sensible thing to do, the safer thing to do, but...I don’t want to work there when I have a better offer.”

 “Are you sure that it _is_ the better offer?” Baxter put in, frowning worriedly. “Money aside, will it be a good environment for you?”

 “A good environment?” Thomas gave a humourless laugh. “I’m not sure there is such a thing for someone like me. I’ll never really belong anywhere so long as I am the way that I am.” He shrugged. “At least Philip, if he doesn’t immediately throw me out on sight, won’t fire me just for liking men, won’t call the police on me for being what I am...won’t automatically regard me as being foul for something I can’t help.”

 “You think the Duke would throw you out on sight?” she asked with a frown.

 He sighed, “Well, he has plenty of reasons to. I’m not sure if the Duchess knows about him or not – though twelve years would be an awfully long time for even Philip to have been able to conceal his true nature from his own wife, however good of a liar he is. But she clearly doesn’t know who I am and I doubt Philip would be keen to take on the complications that my working for him could bring. There is also the part where I...” he trailed off, grimacing slightly.

  _What difference does it make?_ Thomas decided. It wasn’t as though Baxter didn’t already know exactly what kind of person he was.

 “...I threatened to blackmail him when he broke up with me,” he concluded tentatively. “I can’t imagine he’d want to see my face again after that.”

 “You tried to _blackmail_ your own lover?” Baxter just stared at him.

 Thomas winced but carried on. He may as well just finish digging the hole he’d started.

 “Using the letters he’d written me...unknowing at the time that the bastard had already been crafty enough to steal them back, almost as if he’d known that I would try to use them against him.”

 “Oh, Thomas...” Baxter sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to say no wonder the man burned them but...” She lifted a hand, trailing off into a pointed silence.

 Thomas bristled, “So you’re taking his side? He...he used me. He made me believe that he cared about me and then he just threw me away like I was nothing.” Trembling with upset, he forced himself to take a deep breath. “Blackmailing him...it was just the first thing that came into my mind.” He met her eyes. “It was the only thing I had left to hurt him with.”

 “Like he hurt you,” she nodded with sorrowed understanding, then cautioned him quietly. “But Thomas, if your recent experiences have taught you anything then surely you know the dangers of living a life motivated by negative feelings. The best thing I think you can do for yourself is to forgive him, for your own sake if not his. And I’m sure he probably had his own reasons for doing what he did...”

 She raised a hand to forestall him as he opened his mouth in protest. “...And I say this because writing letters to you for a year knowing that he was creating potentially incriminating evidence against himself but choosing to do it anyway doesn’t strike me as the action of a man who didn’t have some feeling for you. After all, hadn’t you already given him everything that he could have wanted to use you for during the London season? What did he really have to gain from corresponding with you other than fulfilling a need to still keep you in his life in some way?”

 Thomas stilled at her words, heart aching, eyes downcast.

  _“Then why did he let me go?”_ he whispered at last, words ragged with despair. “I knew that as a duke he needed to get married and have an heir and I didn’t mind about that. I knew that his position put a lot of pressure on him and I tried to help him in any way I could.” He looked up earnestly, seeming younger in that moment than he had been in decades. “All I wanted was to be with him, that’s all I wanted. Whenever, however, it didn’t matter. I just wanted to stay with him.”

 Baxter’s eyes were liquid with sympathy.

 “I don’t know. That’s something that you’d have to ask him. But just remember one thing: he may not be the man knew anymore. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him and just think all the ways that you’ve changed since you knew him. In fact he’s _not_ the man you knew anymore at all. He’s a husband and a father now, Thomas. Don’t let yourself forget that anything that affects him will impact his children.”

 She met his eyes with quiet but resolute sternness and for a moment Thomas was reminded of what it had been like to have an older sister again as she continued.

 “So if you have any thoughts of revenge in your mind motivating you go to work for him, I suggest you let them go. And if you don’t think you can handle the situation with maturity and civility then I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to go. All you would be doing is creating an unhealthy environment and putting yourself in the middle of it. You should think very hard before you make your decision.”

 Thomas nodded, falling pensively silent. Baxter reached out to open the door and then lay a gentle hand on his back to guide him out.

 “Come, I’ll make us some tea so we can get back to bed.”

~*~*~*~

 Thomas sat in his worn white undershirt and pajama pants on the side of his bed, his elbows braced on his knees, leaning over his clasped hands in the dim light of his room. Baxter’s cup of chamomile tea hadn’t been enough to make him sleepy but he did feel much calmer.

 Should he or shouldn’t he, that was the question.

  _Pros:_

  _A much higher salary._

  _A very prestigious position and he’d be able to apply for a far higher calibre of jobs in the future with a reference from a duke._

  _A larger staff. He’d be much less lonely working at Crowborough than for the Stileses and would have a better chance of making a friend or two there._

  _Greater challenges. He didn’t even need to be mentally engaged to do his job anymore, he could practically do it in his sleep. No wonder he didn’t want to wake up in the morning. He was slowly drowning in the monotony of his days._

  _Philip had four children and Thomas liked being around children. They would also help Thomas transition from missing the Crowley children. The Stileses had no children._

  _Philip and his wife were an energetic younger couple and the Stileses were a stuffy elderly couple. The Somersets would make for better personal entertainment. The families they served were, after all, the primary melodrama enjoyed by those in service._

  _Thomas would get to see a part of England that he had never been to before. He’d always wanted to travel more and a change of scenery would be invigorating after the tedium of living and working at Downton for so long._

  _No one at Crowborough – in the castle or the town – other than Philip would know that he was homosexual so he wouldn’t have to deal prejudice in that regard. He would have a chance to start over and be more careful about outing himself again. Working for the Stileses would have the same benefit._

  _Lord Stiles had struck him as a very traditional-minded man and he doubted the man would deal with Thomas’ sexuality with half the equanimity that Lord and Lady Grantham had if he were to be exposed. At least with Philip he wouldn’t have to worry about being fired or arrested for his orientation. As for the duchess, her views of such things remained to be seen._

  _Thomas would, for once, be going to Philip on more equal footing. He would be taking charge of a position he was more or less qualified for on his own merits, one that he hadn’t schemed or slept his way into and that wasn’t reliant on pleasing Philip personally._

  _Philip himself would be there, one of the few people in the world that he didn’t need to hide fundamental parts of himself from. He wouldn’t even have to pretend to be particularly nice; Philip had never been less than accepting of any part of Thomas’ personality, even the uglier parts that other people castigated him for. It would be like being able to breathe freely again after years of living at the summit of a mountain._

  _Philip might try to seduce him, and he’d been the best sexual partner that Thomas had ever had -_

 Thomas gave himself a firm blow to the forehead with the heel of his hand.

  _Don’t even think about that!_ _he_ told himself sternly. _That is not a pro!_ Little Thomas may not have agreed with him, but mind over matter. _I’m_ _a grown_ _man_ _now_ _,_ _I’m not without self-control._

  _Cons:_

  _A far more demanding position in terms of work required_ _and staff to manage_ _. If he worked for the Stileses he would have more spare time for himself, even if he wouldn’t have anyone to share that time with. Just think of all the books he could finally get around to reading!_

  _He would have to move to Sussex, to a part of the country that he had never been to and where he didn’t know anyone other than Philip. And he wouldn’t be close enough to hop on the train to visit Downton Abbey on his day off. He would be largely cut off from his old life, which was good in some ways but not so good in others. He wouldn’t be able to see the few people in his life that actually cared about him._

  _Philip might try to seduce him...and if he was honest with himself, he doubted if he would be able to hold out for very long against the man’s attentions. And then what? He’d probably end up falling for him again and getting his heart broken when Philip got bored with him or decided he wasn’t worth the risk and then broke things off. And then he’d be stuck working for the bastard until he could find another job._

  _Thomas would just have to not allow himself to be seduced in the first place. He would have to focus on being entirely professional. Christ, professionalism had never been his strongest suit...but it was better than being used and cast aside, right?_

 Conclusion:

 There were far less benefits to working for the Stileses, but it was by far the safer option. And yet...

 The thought of going to work for them made his chest feel tight with dread, but the thought of going to work for Philip...it was a slow-moving blood-rush to Thomas’ frozen, listless heart. It was as though something that had gone cold and quiet in the core of his being was fluttering into wakefulness.

 It could go very badly for him, but if it went well...oh, it could go very, very well.

 And when had Thomas ever not been a risk taker? It may not have endeared him to anyone, but Thomas had never felt more alive than when he was scheming or in love.

 Hell, he even had a safety net already in place this time. He could just write to Lord Stiles and tell him that he needed to work out his notice before he could come to work for him. That would buy him two weeks. Surely two weeks would be enough to give him an idea as to whether or not it would be feasible for him to stay at Crowborough. And if Philip refused to let him work there, he could just go to the Stileses and say that he would be able to start work earlier after all.

 Thomas could do it, and why shouldn’t he? Why should he deny himself a better position in life? Because of Philip?

  _I’m not afraid of Philip Somerset_ , he thought obstinately.

 What had been the Duke’s parting shot at him as they’d stood on Downton’s front walk the last time that Thomas had set eyes on him? Oh, yes -

  _[“...A short stay in your lovely house has driven away my cares.”]_

 Philip hadn’t had to look at Thomas for him to know the dig was meant for him.

  _Oh,_ _it_ _i_ _s_ _n’t vengeance,_ he told himself. _It’s practically fair play._

 Thomas’ lips curled into a smirk.

 It would be worth it just to see the look on Philip’s face when his old abandoned _care_ dropped on his doorstep and his own wife told him that Thomas was their new butler. Honestly, it would serve him right.

 Maybe fate had a sense of humour after all.

~*~*~*~

 

Author's note: Yes, me again. lol

Does anyone think I need to raise this to an Explicit rating or am I still safe under Mature? 

The inspiration for the Duchess' dress was taken from [this](http://www.mediafire.com/convkey/492e/yydfksqjel56wiezg.jpg).

I choose to use an Edwardian Script font for the letter rather than actual handwriting (which would have been somewhat more authentic) so that people would have an easier time reading it and still get a little visual flavour of what Thomas saw. (Though I've been told that I have nice and fairly legible handwriting by many, there are people that have difficulty reading cursive.)


	4. Chapter Three

Author's Note: Yes, I know, finally another chapter produces itself after so long. Though this is only the first half of the much longer chapter I've been tackling and still not yet managed to finish, which I'm feeling kind of bad about. 

The full chapter is already 30 or so pages (minus a few scenes that I still need to find the time to write) or I figured I should post it in two parts for easier reading anyway. And I have to say that it just _did not_ want to be written. The whole month I've felt like the stars have been aligned against me.

This weekend I supposed to finish writing those few scenes - it was the only free time that I had to spend on it all week - and there were not one, but TWO blackouts that timed themselves to exactly when I was just starting to write on my laptop at night. The first night was somewhat annoying, the second night was just like, _"Seriously?! Are you kidding me?!"_ It was pitch black everywhere, even in the street and even after lighting a dozen candles I still couldn't see all that well given my sadly weak eyesight. I waited a few hours to see if it would come back on but eventually had to give up and go to sleep. :(

But well, I guess 16 pages is better than nothing. ^_^

 

**Chapter 3**

 

“ _I shed no tears at quitting home,_

_Nor will I shed them now!”_

Adam Lindsay Gordon _, An Exile's Farewell_

~*~*~*~

_Tuesday, August 18, 1925_

“Mr Barrow?”

Thomas’ groan was muffled by his pillow.

“...Are you all right, Mr Barrow?” came a voice Thomas’ sleep-fogged brain belated identified as Andy’s. “Should I tell Mr Carson you’re sick?”

Why was Andy in his room? Thomas groaned again, forcing open a swollen eyelid slightly and promptly squeezing it shut again at the bright morning light flooding his room.

“Shite,” he grumbled, rubbing at his sore eyes in an attempt to open them. “What time is it?”

“It’s five after eight,” the footman replied. “Mr Carson sent me to check on you.”

Damn, he’d overslept! Carson would hang him.

Thinking on it, he couldn’t remember hearing the hallboy’s wake-up call. After not managing to fall asleep until after three in the morning, he must’ve been so deeply comatose that he hadn’t registered the hallboy at all. Christ, he _knew_ he should have set his alarm clock but the unholy racket it made made him jump out of his skin every time it went off so he’d long ago abandoned its use in favour of the much milder method of awakening. He sighed tiredly, managing to get his eyes open a crack.

“I’m fine, I just overslept,” Thomas reassured him,voice rough with sleep. “Get everything together, I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

“Alright, Mr Barrow,” Andy replied, a hint of relief leaking into his voice. “See you soon.”

Thomas heard the sound of receding footsteps and the click of the door as the footman closed it quietly behind him.

He turned onto his back with a tired exhalation, breathing slow and deep as he struggled not to drift off again. The Duchess’ letter and his own decision made in the early hours of the morning suddenly came back to him and his eyes started open.

_Philip._

His days at Downton Abbey were severely numbered.

A new life awaited him just as soon as he finished sloughing off the remnants of his old one.

Time to get up and face the day.

~*~*~*~

It was 8:20 am by the time Thomas dragged himself out of bed, dressed and hurried downstairs to the dining room. Andy was already setting up the chafing dishes on the sideboard for the breakfast buffet when he entered and five place settings worth of china and silverware sat neatly piled together on the folded white tablecloth awaiting attention.

Thomas ignored the lethargy that weighed down his entire body, ignored the soreness of his swollen, tired eyes and the throbbing of his head to move the dishes and silverware off to the side. His arms ached, filled with lead, as he unfurled the large rectangle of starched white linen over the polished gleam of the mahogany table. He pulled the cloth back in in barely suppressed irritation as it refused to go where he wanted it and put more force behind the snap of his wrists as he propelled it out over the table once again. It sailed further this time, much closer to where he need it to be.

Andy hurried over then, saying, “Good morning, Mr Barrow,” with a smile as he tugged the other end of the tablecloth into place.

Thomas stepped back to survey the evenness of the cloth even as he replied, “Morning, Andy.” He’d been draping this same tablecloth for so many years that he didn’t even need to check the other side of the table to know whether one side had a bit too much cloth or not. “Pull it down two inches more on your side.” Andy did and Thomas adjusted the cloth minutely until he knew the proportions were perfect.

“How nice of you to join us, Mr Barrow,” came Carson’s unmistakable baritone from behind him.

Thomas cringed slightly before turning to the butler where he stood, broad and reproving, just inside the doorway.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Mr Carson. It won’t happen again.”

“No, I dare say it won’t,” Carson rumbled. “Unless, of course, you’re planning on staying abed another day this week?”

Right. Thomas didn’t have many mornings left to be tardy in this house. It was probably the only reason he wasn’t being raked over the coals as thoroughly as he once would have been.

“Of course not, Mr Carson.”

“Miss Baxter said you received the letter from Her Grace last night,” the butler began without preamble. “I presume you had a chance to look over it.”

“Yes, Mr Carson,” Thomas said. The older man looked expectantly at him when he said nothing further, so he forced himself to continue. “I will likely accept Her Grace’s offer.”

Carson just nodded. “Good. I’ll leave you to finish in here then.”

With that, the butler left and Thomas turned to finish helping Andy set up for breakfast.

~*~*~*~

“Behind on your beauty sleep, were you, Mr Barrow?” Mrs Patmore ribbed him as Thomas ducked into the kitchen to collect one of the breakfast platters.

“Something like that,” he murmured with a faint smile as he exited nearly as quickly as he’d entered, forcing his fatigued legs to carry him up the stairs.

~*~*~*~

Thanks to the Crawleys serving themselves from the buffet and Andy serving the tea and coffee there was little for Thomas to do other than stand there all through breakfast, as silent and dignified as a statue, as he pretended not to be able to hear the plans being discussed for the day. He surreptitiously gazed out the dining room window, taking in the sunlit grass disinterestedly, as Lady Edith and Branson decided that they and the children would first show the Duchess around the Abbey and then the gardens. Afterwards they could go for a walk into town and see where the day took them.

Thomas managed to successfully stifle a yawn or two by the time the Duchess and Lady Grantham finally, mercifully, stood, signalling the end of the meal. The Duchess stilled, glancing over at him as she passed, and he forced his attention back where it belonged.

“Good morning, Mr Barrow,” she greeted, as the others lingered in wait for her.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Thomas replied, hoping he didn’t look half as exhausted as he felt.

“Did you have a chance to look over the letter I sent for you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And were the terms satisfactory?”

Thomas hesitated briefly, realizing that if he wanted to negotiate for a higher salary or additional benefits that now was the time. But the terms and pay outlined had already been far more than he had anticipated, to ask for more would make him look greedy. In the past, he would have tried to get as much as he could unhesitatingly. But now? Not so much.

“...Very much so, Your Grace. I...” Thomas’ heart beat faster with the immensity of what he was about to commit himself to. “I would be honoured to accept the position.”

A radiant smile burst across her face and Thomas couldn’t help but smile back slightly, restrained by propriety. “Oh good, I’m so glad!”

Thomas detected the others exchanging glances out of the corner of his eye.

The Duchess turned to Lord and Lady Grantham. “Do you need Mr Barrow to work out his notice, Lord Grantham?”

Lord Grantham looked a bit uncertain. “...I suppose not. Carson?”

“We won’t insist on it,” Carson decided.

_Just one less pony in the ringmaster’s circus._

“Excellent,” the Duchess said, pleased. “Then Mr Barrow can return with me to Crowborough.” She turned carefully towards Thomas. “That is, assuming that you have no additional matters to tie up before you’ll be free to leave? I was planning on taking the eight o’clock train to London tomorrow morning, but if you need more time...”

Eight o’clock in the morning? A sudden heaviness churned in his gut and he struggled to push it away. He’d already known, of course, that the Duchess intended to leave some time tomorrow, but to have the exact hour named...he now had less than twenty-four hours until he would be leaving Downton behind for good.

“Yes, I know,” the Duchess said with a small laugh, misinterpreting Thomas’ strained expression. “I don’t much care for early morning train rides – or early mornings and train rides in general – but I thought if we caught the eight o’clock train then we would arrive in London in good time to have lunch there and spare ourselves what attempts to pass itself off as food on the train before we catch the next train home.”

Home. It would be a buggering long time before Thomas could ever imagine Crowborough as home, if ever.

“That’s fine, Your Grace,” he reassured her. “I’m well accustomed to early mornings and I don’t mind train rides. Actually, I rather like them,” he volunteered, for this Duchess seemed to be a chatty sort that, strangely, didn’t restrain herself even where her social inferiors were concerned. He wondered just how much that drove Philip round the bend; while the Duke was often socially gregarious, too much forced interaction tended to irritate and wear him out.

“I wish I could say the same,” the Duchess replied, frowning slightly. “I love travelling itself, just not so much the modes of transportation. The first time I came to England with the Duke I suffered the _worst_ seasickness for days on end. I was never so relieved to reach solid ground in my life! In comparison, sporadic motion sickness isn’t nearly so bad.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose I wouldn’t like trains either if I were you, Your Grace,” Thomas put in lightly. “I’ll ask our cook or housekeeper if there’s something that will help so we can bring it with us.”

“Thank you, Mr Barrow. I’d appreciate it,” she said graciously, adding, “Our cook usually sends ginger tea or peppermint oil and a bit of food just in case.”

“I’ll let Mrs Patmore know then, Your Grace” he assured her.

“Thank you, Mr Barrow,” the Duchess said again. “I’ll just...get out your hair and let you all get on in here.” With that she left, Lady Edith and Branson following.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all sorted out, Barrow,” Lord Grantham proclaimed as he and his wife crossed the room to where Thomas stood. “I sincerely hope things go well for you.”

Thomas stood awkwardly a moment, a slightly self-conscious smile appearing. “Your Lordship, Your Ladyship, I wanted to thank you for everything.”

“You're not going just yet, Barrow,” the Earl joked.

“I know,” Thomas said, a bit sheepishly, “but time might get away from us and I might not get a chance to say it otherwise.”

Lord Grantham studied him a moment, then gave a hint of a wry smile. “We've known some adventures during your time with us.”

Thomas almost wanted to laugh at the understatement, but instead offered, “I've learned a great deal while I've been here, My Lord.”

It was true. He’d grown up in this man’s house as surely as he had in his own father’s house, perhaps more so.

Lord Grantham brow furrowed, “I'm afraid I've rather lectured you at times, not too harshly, I hope.”

He was surprised to find that he didn’t burn quite as bitterly as he had for so long and smiled. “On the contrary. I will begin my new position with a new spirit, and I have you to thank for that.”

It was actually a lot easier to find a measure of forgiveness and to let go of so much that had gone before with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be seeing these people anymore. They had long been the sentries of the cage that he had been in, but soon he would be free of them.

The Earl’s brow beetled further in surprise even as his wife smiled. “I'm glad if, on balance, it's been rewarding for you.”

Thomas found a genuine smile. “I arrived here as a boy, I leave as a man. Please give my best wishes to Lady Mary.”

He would be long gone by the time she returned from her honeymoon and, well, she’d been the only member of the family to actually come visit him after his failed attempt to take his own life. It wasn’t a small gesture for someone like Mary Crawley, he knew. In many ways, he and Lady Mary had always been alike.

Lady Grantham smiled gently up at him. “We will. And we'll always be so grateful to you for saving Edith from the fire.”

“And I hope it turns out I saved her for better things,” he said. Lady Edith had had enough misfortune in the last decade that even Thomas couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

Lord Grantham extended his hand. “Very good luck to you, Barrow.”

Thomas stared for a beat before reaching out to shake the Earl’s hand firmly, surprised by how affected he was by the unexpected gesture. “Thank you, My Lord.”

His days at Downton were nearly done. All he could do now was go forward and try not to look back.

~*~*~*~

Thomas sank into his rocking chair with a sigh of relief as soon as he’d finished helping Andy carry down the dishes from the dining room. He’d been tempted to just leave the younger man to it – Thomas was still the under butler after all – and escape to the servant’s hall early. Andy would certainly have to learn to bear the brunt of the load once Thomas was gone if the Crawleys ended up never hiring a second footman again. But it was his last day, after all, and he liked Andy well enough to be willing to go out of his way to help him. If it had been Alfred or William he’d have told them to go bugger themselves; in Molesley’s case it would have depended on just how magnanimous he was feeling on that particular day.

He felt his eyes drift closed and couldn’t bring himself to open them. He wondered if Bates and Anna, who were sitting together at the table, would be kind enough to let him nap undisturbed in his chair for a final time...

“Mr Barrow?”

Of course not.

“Are you sleeping?”

“Yes, Daisy, I am,” he muttered irritably.

“Fine. I just wanted to tell you we saved a plate for you, from breakfast. Do you want it or not?”

Thomas cracked an eye open with a sigh. Daisy was standing over him with her hands on her hips. “Alright, then.”

“It’s gone cold. I’ll put in a pan to warm it up a bit.”

“Thanks.” He closed his eyes again.

In what felt like barely a minute or two later, Thomas was being poked in his shoulder.

“Mr Barrow! Wake up!”

Mrs Patmore. He started awake, lifting his head off the hard back of the chair.

“Your food’s at the table. And Daisy’s making you coffee – which you seem sorely in need of I must say. Imagine sleeping sitting up at barely half ten. You’re not getting sick again are you?”

Carson had told the staff that didn’t already know the truth of what he’d done a few weeks back that he’d had the flu.

Thomas forced himself to sit up. “No, I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well.”

Mrs Patmore huffed out a sigh at him as she moved to sit at the chair adjacent to the head of the table with an aching tiredness that seemed to surpass his own. “Then get up and on with it before your food goes cold. I’m not heating it up again.”

He dragged himself out of the chair and forced his stiff back to straighten, moving to where his plate of bread, eggs and sausage sat waiting for him at his usual seat next to a jar of strawberry jam and the butter dish.

Sitting down at the table and looking down at his food, Thomas realized he didn’t have much interest in eating it. His stomach was in knots and his mind kept running stubbornly forward to tomorrow.

Not wanting to provoke the cook further, he cut a piece of sausage and stuck it in his mouth. He grimaced slightly – it was warm on the outside but still cold inside – but forced himself to keep chewing. He didn’t dare ask for either Daisy or Mrs Patmore to heat it up any more; they’d probably just say it served him right for missing breakfast in the first place.

Carson came in then and Thomas hauled himself to his feet along with everyone else. The butler sat down at the head of the table, slicing open an envelope with a letter opener and silently studying its contents, and they returned to their seats.

Daisy returned with his coffee, depositing it next to his plate, already prepared just the way he took it: one sugar and a bit of milk.

“Thank you,” Thomas said, picking up the faintly steaming brew and blowing on it before taking a tentative sip. He winced and rubbed his scalded tongue against the roof of his mouth in an attempt to soothe it. He set it down in favour of applying himself to eating more of the rapidly cooling food in front of him.

“Daisy,” the butler called, looking up from his letter. “Is there any more coffee?”

“Yes, Mr Carson,” she replied, going the door. “I’ll get one for you.”

Andy came in and settled himself next to Thomas, though it wasn’t his usual seat. The younger man looked at him, opening his mouth as if to say something, when Daisy came back with Carson’s coffee in hand.

“Is that coffee?” the footman inquired. “Is there any left?”

Daisy let out a somewhat aggravated sigh. “Yes, I’ll go get you one.”

“Oh, that’s all right, I can get it...” Andy began but Daisy had already disappeared out the door. He started to get up to follow her Thomas subtly waved him down.

_Desperation doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, Andy. Especially not with that lass._

In the time the under cook was gone, Thomas managed to demolish his eggs and choke down his few cold sausages. He was just reaching for the jam for his bread when Daisy returned with a worn wooden tray bearing the coffee pot, sugar, creamer, empty cups and saucers and a small plate of scones. A book was tightly lodged under one arm.

“Anyone else who wants coffee, you know where to find it,” Daisy announced, setting the tray down on the table carefully so as not to dislodge her book. As soon as her hands were empty she transferred the thick tome to the empty spot next to Mrs Patmore.

Andy reached for a cup at the same time Daisy did and she lightly smacked his hand away. He looked up at her, bewildered.

“I said I’d get it for you, didn’t I?” she groused.

“Uh, yes...thank you, Daisy.”

Thomas snorted inwardly at the stupidly befuddled smile on his smile. Honestly...he wasn’t sure he’d much miss having to be a witness to this awkward dance every day.

Taking three saucers and cups off the tray, she filled the cups and passed one to Mrs Patmore, one to Andy and took the last for herself along with a scone. The cook and footman helped themselves to the milk and sugar. Both took scones as well; Mrs Patmore took two. Looking up from the sheaf of papers in his hand, Carson reached out and took one, too.

Daisy settled back in her chair as Thomas eyed the dwindling supply of freshly baked scones with increasing appetite. Perhaps it was time to give his coffee another try. He plucked up a warm scone from the little pile and set it safely on his plate. Seeing Bates’ gaze on the coffee pot, he gave it a gentle push down the table towards the valet and his wife. Noticing, Andy guided it along the rest of the way so they could serve themselves.

 “Are we not doing the breakfast dishes?” Mrs Patmore asked half-jokingly, as Daisy pulled her book towards her.

“I’ll get to them in a bit,” Daisy grumbled, opening her book and biting into her food.

Of all the cutbacks, the lack of a kitchen maid was the one that Thomas felt the most pity for. Because it wasn’t enough work to have to cook and feed twenty people multiple times a day from sun up till nightfall, now they had to wash up after themselves, too.

“I’ll do them,” Andy said a little too enthusiastically, springing up from his seat though neither coffee nor scone was finished.

_A little too much energy in that one,_ Thomas thought, both cynical and wistful all at once. _Oh, to be young._

Daisy eyed the footman quizzically. “If you like. Don’t blame me if you get your clothes dirty.”

“There’s an extra apron in the second drawer from the sink, to the right,” Mrs Patmore informed with a little smile. “That’s awfully nice of you, Andy. I can’t think of a single footman in this house who’s ever volunteered to do the dishes.” She gave Daisy a rather heavily pointed look that made the girl frown irritably.

“I’m happy to help,” Andy said with a good-natured smile.

“At least finish your scone first,” Thomas admonished him lightly.

“Oh, right,” he murmured, slightly sheepish, and sat back down.

Thomas bit down into his scone; this batch was a bit denser, more cake-like, which he’d always preferred to the light and flaky versions. He tasted his coffee; it had cooled enough to be drinkable so he took a long gulp of it.

He glanced over to where Carson was eating his scone with his nearly depleted coffee, waiting. He ate the rest of his own scone in the meantime, washing it down with the coffee.Finally, he swallowed his last mouthful before speaking.

“Mr Carson, can I go into town?”

The butler replied sedately, “Yes, I suppose, Mr Barrow. I was thinking...you may as well take the rest of the day off. You’re still owed your half-day from Sunday and well, this is your last day with us it seems.”

“What’s this?” Mrs Patmore asked with a frown. She’d never liked being out of the loop on gossip.

“Mr Barrow has accepted the position of butler to the Duke and Duchess of Crowborough,” Carson explained. “He will be leaving tomorrow morning when Her Grace does.”

Daisy stared. “That’s awful short notice.”

Bates looked faintly amused. “Downton Abbey without Mr Barrow --”

Anna quickly put her hand on his arm, forestalling his words. “Nothing ungenerous.”

Mrs Patmore seemed quietly taken aback. “Are you really going?”

Thomas met the cook’s eyes with a slightly teasing smile. “Even good things come to an end.”

She breathed out an uncertain laugh, “Well, I don't know if you're a good or a bad thing, Mr Barrow, but we've all been together a long time.”

He thought he detected a hint of sadness in her blue eyes and felt an unexpected ache rush into his throat. He gave her a small smile that he feared mirrored the sentiment in her own.

“And on that moving note, I think I'll get ready to go into town,” he said quickly, making his escape.

~*~*~*~

In his attic room, Thomas’ pair of worn leather valises engraved with the now nearly faded _E.B._ s seemed to stare mockingly up at him.

_Elijah Barrow._

They were the exact same pair of small suitcases that he’d stolen from his father’s house at fifteen years old and arrived with at Downtown Abbey in 1910.

There was no way that all of the clothes and belongings he’d accumulated in the last fifteen years would fit in them. He’d have to buy at least two large suitcases or maybe a trunk and neither of those things came in much supply in a place as small Downton Village. At least when Thomas had gone to London for the season or to America with Lord Grantham the man had loaned him a few of his older suitcases to use but obviously he couldn’t do that now.

When he’d been applying for solely Yorkshire positions, he’d figured he would ask if they would store whatever he couldn’t take with him and he could come and collect more of it when he got his half-days. Nowhere in Yorkshire was so far away by train that he wouldn’t have been able to come, visit a while, and go back all in the same half-day. But Crowborough was even farther away than London, on the other side of the country in southern England. It would be at least half a day’s journey just to go and come. No, more luggage was nonnegotiable.

Perhaps the Earl would be willing to sell his older suitcases to him since he didn’t really use them anymore...but the very thought of asking was distasteful to him. It had been hard enough to swallow his pride and accept it back then but now...

If he asked he knew Lord Grantham might feel so guilty that he’d likely insist on giving them to Thomas outright under the guise of noblesse oblige. But Thomas wasn’t some pitiable creature, dependant on their charity. He couldn’t be.

“You’re not a victim, don’t let them make you into one,” he’d once told Edward Courtenay what seemed a lifetime ago.

For so long he’d been on the offence at the slightest hint of any threat himself to prevent himself from ever being anyone’s victim ever again.But he had been one for months on end lately. He’d felt victimized and unwanted by every person he knew and it had nearly killed him.

In the past, it had been his hate and his fury at the world and everyone in it – veiled by an icy reserve – that had given him his strength to go on and keep fighting to bring himself up in the world, clawing and scratching his way if need be. He’d figured out too late that bitterness and resentment was a thing that fed on itself and eventually its bearer. By the time he had, that fiery darkness was burning him up from within, flowing hot in his veins and twisted deep in his marrow, turning into an anguish inseparable from himself.

How was being _nicer_ to people supposed to fix that?

He still had to find a way to go on, but just not as he had before. He _wasn’t_ a victim. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let himself fall prey even to himself, to that burning darkness that was that was waiting to take him if he let it.

He thought his younger self had had it easier. He’d only had the abandonment of his family to bear and society to fight, and he’d still had the hope of the youthful: that there was still time for life to get better.

Thomas still had to fight the world, endure every loss, and worse yet, he had to battle himself every minute of the day with a battered, near hopeless heart that bore so many more bruises and scars than his younger self had ever had. And every year of age he took on often felt like just another nail in the coffin that would seal him inside of his unhappiness forever.

There had been moments over the years when he’d wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if he’d died during the war. At least they would have called him a hero rather than an abomination. So far, it didn’t seem like he had saved himself for anything better. Jimmy had been the only light in all those shadows, brilliant and all too brief, before he, too, vanished from Thomas’ life.

Without a doubt, he had been trapped in the gloom for far too long – it was no wonder he was going off in the head. He’d always made his own way and stood on his own two feet.

It was time for him to do it again.

It was time for him to remember who he was.

Thomas eyed his valises dubiously. If he was lucky he might find something similar to what he already had in one of the small shops in the village, most likely in the second hand shop that carried all manner of odds and ends, but another valise or two wouldn’t be enough.

Thirsk was in walking distance but it wasn’t that much bigger than Downton and he might not find anything decent there. He could go to Ripon; it would have somewhat more to choose from. Though if he was going to be wasting money on train fare anyway, he’d rather just pay a bit more and go to York. It was only thirty minutes away by train – and he’d have a lot more to choose from. He probably couldn’t afford anything quite as nice as that handsome steamer truck that the Duchess had brought but it would still be worth a look.

He also just preferred visiting York to Ripon.

And crikey, it would be _nice_ just to see something different, something outside of Downton, for a change.

There also was _no way_ he was showing up on Philip’s doorstep with shabby second-hand luggage – no, he was going to go find the nicest ones he could afford. He wasn’t that young man who still wore a newsboy cap because he couldn’t afford anything better anymore.

Presentation was at the better half of any battle.

~*~*~*~

Thomas exited Carson’s office a brief while later dressed in his best brown suit, the remainder of his quarterly salary (pay for July and August) and his severance pay in his pocket. He walked along the corridor, smiling slightly to himself. He’d been broke for months after wasting all his savings on the Godforsaken Choose Your Own Path Therapy and it was a good feeling to have money in his pocket again. He’d also been surprised to receive two months worth of severance pay. Thomas could only guess Lord Grantham felt more guilty than he let on.

Deciding to be more judicious with his money from now on, Thomas made the long walk back up to the attic and left half of the money behind along with the rest of the meagre savings he’d begun putting aside again since the therapy had been revealed to be a scam in May. At least that way he couldn’t spend what he didn’t have on him.

Wary of the time he’d once been mugged in York, he folded up the bank notes and tucked them into his innermost waistcoat pocket. He put the several pounds worth of coins in his change purse into his suit jacket pocket. At least that way he’d have a decent amount of money to give any potential mugger who’d then, hopefully, be satisfied enough to leave him be with the bulk of his money still hidden away.

Stopping to seal the now dry letter he’d written earlier to Lord Mark Stiles into an envelope, he tucked it into his inside jacket pocket and made his way back downstairs.

Invigorated by the thought of getting out for the rest of the day, Thomas nevertheless beseeched Daisy for another cup of coffee, another caffeine jolt to keep his sleep-deprived body ticking.

“I have plenty of ginger but we haven’t any peppermint oil for the Duchess. Make sure you pick some up in town,” Mrs Patmore instructed him.

Oh. He’d forgotten to tell the cook about the Duchess’ request – not good. Carson must have made sure to tell her; he at least wouldn’t have forgotten.

“Sure,” Thomas replied. “I’m going to York though, so I might be back late with it.”

“York?” Daisy looked up from the vegetables she was cutting up for lunch with interest. “What are you going into York for?”

He hesitated slightly. “I need to buy more luggage.”

“Have you tried the second hand shop?” the cook asked. “You might find something and for a good deal cheaper. Or someone would likely be happy to sell you theirs if you ask around in town. There’s plenty of older folk around here who don’t travel much who’d be glad to have a little extra money -”

“I was hoping to buy new ones,” he interjected as lightly as he could. “Also, that would take more time than I have.”

“Suit yourself then,” Mrs Patmore said, looking slightly put out. “It’s your money, Mr Barrow.”

“I’m sure he don’t mind about the money much,” Daisy observed. “He always has such nice things.”

Mrs Patmore just made a disapproving little scoffing sound. She probably thought him too full of himself. Thomas didn’t really care.

As soon as his coffee was ready he took it into the servant’s hall so he could sit in his chair and drink it in peace before he left.

~*~*~*~

It wasn’t until quarter past one that Thomas was able to settle himself into the cheapest seat on the train that he could buy and open his book to where he’d last left off.

It had taken him about a briskly paced forty-five minutes of walking to reach Downton Village’s little train depot on the outskirts of town, not counting the time he’d spent stopping off at the post office to drop off his letter and the five minutes or so taken up waiting in line at the apothecary’s to pay for the small bottle of peppermint oil that was now safely nestled in his suit jacket pocket. He’d picked up a cheaply printed mystery novel from the village’s lone used book shop along the way, which had been a good choice given the forty minute wait that he’d had until the next train to York had come.

After a short while, he’d lapsed from his reading to leaning his head against the window glass and watching the countryside go by. He was finding the book a bit too dull and predictable to hold his attention but he resolved to finish it anyway, if only to see if his suspicions were correct.

Also, he needed some excuse to keep ignoring the uncomfortably appreciative gaze of the woman – in her late twenties to early thirties perhaps, pretty, he supposed in a simple country way – sitting beside him. He anxiously thumbed the small amount of pages that were left to read, after which he’d be without a socially acceptable barrier to keep between them. Perhaps a nap was in order. He could certainly do with one.

He turned to the woman and gave her a charmingly tired smile. “I think I’m starting to nod off. Would you mind waking me if I don’t wake before we reach York?”

She’d asked him earlier, under the guise of small talk, where he was going and revealed she was also getting off at York. She’d said she was just visiting family; pity, if she’d been a native he could’ve at least asked her where a good shop to buy luggage was.

She smiled sweetly at him, in a way that told him that she wasn’t unaffected by his smile. “Oh, of course.”

He smiled again, more kindly this time. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she murmured.

~*~*~*~

Twenty minutes later he decided that taking such a short nap had been a very, very bad idea if the ten-fold increase in the lead content of his body was any indication. He’d sleepily lumbered his way off the train – thankfully managing to clip himself in the side by half-walking into a seat only once – and out onto the crowded platform.

He was too busy straining to further open his swollen eyes to appreciate the massive expanse of the curved glass and iron roof of York Railway Station as he usually did. He manoeuvred his way through the throng of people without incident to the nearest empty bench and sunk down onto it gratefully, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

_1:53_ _pm_ _._

There was no point in trying to get back to Downton in time for the servant’s supper at six o’clock. He would’ve had to return to the station to catch the 4:15 pm train to get back to the Abbey and that would’ve been both a waste of train fare and a wasted opportunity.

It wasn’t often that Thomas was able to come to York. He’d been making a visit into the capital city at least once every three or four months on his rare full days off ever since he’d started working for the Crawleys, with the exception of the war years and the last fifteen months since Jimmy had left. In the years prior, he’d learned – a bit too late – that the best opportunity he had for meeting men of his own persuasion without attracting as much attention was in the larger towns and cities, the more crowded the better.

In the wake of Jimmy’s sudden absence from his life, however, he’d sunk further and further into the ever-present loneliness that the younger man had at least been a very good distraction from. And along with his increased isolation had surfaced his long, deep-seated fear that as long as he persisted in loving men, he’d always be alone.

With his growing depression weighing down his heart more with each passing day he’d had little interest in sex anymore, so it had been all too easy to simply abstain from meeting men of his sort by staying at Downton. After his foolhardy and nearly lethal attempt at trying to change who he was, this was his first time returning to York and he wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass him by.

Never mind his luggage deficit, there was no way he was going to see his former lover for the first time in thirteen years having not had sex with anyone but _himself_ for nearly two years. His entire life seemed one long list of pathetic failures since he’d last seen Philip and the only part of it that he had any control over was his non-existent sex life.

So he had two main goals in York: buy nice luggage and get laid. Hopefully one wouldn’t be too much more difficult than the other. And he needed to accomplish both things in time to get himself back to the Abbey by ten o’clock curfew when Carson would lock up the house. He’d have to catch the 8:15 pm train at the very latest to get back in time.

More fully awake now, Thomas stood from the bench.

That gave him around six hours to play then.

~*~*~*~

Author's Note: So yeah, boring chapter I know. lol And what's with the tale of the suitcases? A practical addition that I could not resist adding, boring though it is. For that I apologize.

The reason for it is that the scene in DA where we see Thomas walking on his way to Lord Stiles' house with the two small suitcases in hand, I was like, "Where's the rest of his luggage? Surely that can't be all of it." Now suitcases that size would probably have been realistic for many service people, but not _Thomas_. Seriously, have you **seen** how many different suits etc that the man has worn throughout the entire series? There is no way that that was even remotely enough space to pack a quarter of his wardrobe. Did they think we forgot? Like, who could forget just how many suits they've witnessed this man looking so damn good in? Not me, at least (and that knowledge was no doubt made more acute because I worked in men's retail for years, I just notice clothes if they're worth noticing). So yes, I apologize for letting the anal retentive part of my brain take over. lol

Until, next time! : )


	5. Chapter Four

 Author's Note: 

If you see this: (*) at the end of a paragraph it means there's some sort of (unnecessary) footnote attached for those with inquiring minds. : )

Chapter Four

“ _Things are goin' crazy and I'm not sure who to blame_

_Everything is changing and I do not feel the same_

_I'm slippin' through the cracks of floors I thought that were strong_

_I'm tryin' to find a place where I can feel like I belong.”_

Vanessa Carlton _, Unsung_

_~*~*~*~_

The sun beat down on Thomas, surprisingly warm, as he left York Railway Station. Despite the summer heat, he was carrying an umbrella. The sky over Downton Village had been gray and overcast, the feel of impending rain in the air, when he’d left the Abbey but it seemed he’d be stuck carrying it in vain in York.

He casually strolled about the neighbourhood without an immediate destination in mind, just enjoying the change in scenery. It was remarkable how invigorating a change of environment could be. He’d been to York many times so he had a general knowledge of the city, especially in the area surrounding the train station, and wasn’t overly concerned about getting lost. At least so long as he stuck to the main streets and didn’t get turned around by the networks of tiny medieval streets.

He wandered through a park bordered on one side by the medieval city wall that still surrounded much of York, relieved by the shade provided by the trees. Relaxing, he took in the people walking to and fro as he followed the winding path to the other side of the park and continued onto the pavement of a series of blocks populated by elegant townhouses. Turning the corner, he found himself on a narrow cobbled street filled with shops and packed with people. He glanced into the windows of boutiques, butcher’s shops, pubs, and tea rooms as he ambled along but kept going as he didn’t see anything he was looking for.

He turned sharply on his heel when he reached the end of the street with a clearer idea of where he wanted to start in mind. He continued past more houses interspersed with shops until he reached the River Ouse and made his way to the bridge. He stopped at the height of the bridge to take in the open view, taking off his hat to let the strong breeze ruffle his hair and rest his forearms on the railing as he looked out over the sun-dappled water. The freight-carrying barges going up and down the river were an all too familiar sight, along with the extensive network of walls running along the shores as flood defenses. Several large buildings and huge confectionery factories flanked the river and he reminded himself to stop in the next sweet shop he happened upon to buy a few treats for Master George, Miss Sybbie and Miss Marigold.

Once he’d had his fill of the view, he strode down the bridge and relied on his visual memory to find the right street to turn down. He kept on for a while until he turned into the reassuring familiarity of St Helen’s Square. Deciding to take advantage of the benches and rest his feet for a bit, he sat down to take in the bustle of the area.

It was certainly one of the nicest squares in York with its surroundings of well kept little shops, historic buildings, hanging baskets of flowers and courteously provided public seating that gave a perfect view from the centre of the hubbub. The space buzzed with energy as people went in and out of shops, meandered from window to window looking at the goods on display, and congregated in the open space alone or in small groups.

Thomas met the avid gaze of a well dressed woman sitting near him as he looked around and smiled politely at her. As she gave him a pretty smile in return he thought it was too bad she wasn’t the gender he was hoping for. He made a long and concentrated study of some of the buildings in the square – the Mansion House, the entrance to St Helen’s Church, the Yorkshire Insurance Company, Terry’s of York confectionery shop – until the woman seemed to lose interest in him. Relieved when he saw her get up and walk away out of the corner of his eye, he looked to the shops for the ones he wanted to check out.

There was another confectionary store that he immediately liked the look of, smaller but colourfully painted, and a handsomely maintained tea shop. He could see a set of pretty tins of Yorkshire tea on display in the window (so much nicer than the paper packets that the tea was sold in at Downton) and well...Baxter liked Yorkshire tea. Plus, he reasoned, women always seemed to have lots of little bits and bobs and she could keep things in the tin afterwards.

And there was a rather nice tea room that he’d been to a few times beside the shop as well. A cup of tea and a biscuit wouldn’t go wrong right then and there would undoubtedly be some well informed server inside who he could ask about shops that sold luggage.

Standing up, Thomas gave a quick brush to the seat of his trousers to remove any potential dust and set off.

~*~*~*~

Emerging from the confectionary store a while later with a pair of paper bags in hand, he popped the smaller bag with the tea tin into the larger one. He’d spent more than he should have, he knew, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. It had been a long time since he’d had money to spend on frivolous things, even though most of what he’d bought wasn’t for himself. He told himself they didn’t count since they were parting gifts.

He’d been sold once he’d seen that the Yorkshire tea was a special blend that they didn’t sell at Downton or Thirsk and that the tin was even nicer up close. He’d gone a little overboard in the sweet shop, buying Fruit Gums, Fruit Pastilles, two small chocolate bars and a large box of chocolates. He’d bought the Fruit Gums and Pastilles and a small bar of chocolate for the children to share. As for the box of chocolates, he’d bought it – ostensibly – for Mrs Hughes, feeling strangely guilty at buying something for Baxter but not the housekeeper. He knew that she liked chocolate and figured that she’d share the box with the others. The remaining small chocolate bar he’d bought for himself, quite liking chocolate but rarely getting to have any. Why should everyone get to have chocolate but him?

The middle aged woman who’d served him tea and convinced him to have a slice of cake in the tea room had advised him to try Browns Department Store. She’d said there was also a very nice boutique nearby on Stonegate that sold leather merchandise, including luggage, though she hadn’t been able to remember what it was called.

Since Thomas was already planning on making a stop on Stonegate he figured he’d go there first, wherever its exact location was. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. It was already 3:20 pm. He’d better get a move on.

~*~*~*~

Stonegate was an architecturally eclectic mixture of timber framed medieval and Georgian style buildings and the street was broadly paved in stone in comparison to so many of the narrow cobbled roads that Thomas had seen. As he walked down the street, peering into the shop windows trying to find the boutique he’d been told about, other unusual design elements caught his eye. On one building, number 33, there was a chained red devil perched high above on a black sign bracket. Number 35, he recalled having been told years ago by a man he no longer remembered the name of, was said to be one of the most haunted houses in Britain. It also had stained glass windows and a golden bible dated _1682_ hanging above the doorway.

Thomas frowned as he traversed the better part of the street without finding the leather shop. He supposed he might have to stop and ask someone if it came down to it. He wished the server had remembered what street number it was at. Oh well, he was already near to the pub he’d planned to stop in so he might as well have a quick small ale and ask after the shop. Slipping into one of the narrow alleys just off Stonegate, Thomas kept going until he came to a gallows sign that stretched the width of the street.

_Ye Olde Starre Inne, York’s Oldest Licensed Inn 1664_ , the sign proclaimed.

The unmemorable man had also claimed the Ye Olde Starre Inne to be home to ghosts, but Thomas had been there many times over the years and the only thing that had haunted him about the place was the memory of a few unsavoury men he’d gone with out of desperation in his youth. While it wasn’t strictly an establishment that catered to men like himself, Thomas had still had many successful visits there in the past. He wasn’t likely to have much, if any, success in the afternoon though. The widest variety of men would visit in the evening.

The pub was dimly lit as he entered, the main source of light coming from the large front windows and the lights over the bar. Electric lanterns were distantly interspersed on the wood panelled walls, weakly illuminating the length of the room. A small fire burned in the stone fireplace, mainly for ambience.

 Thomas crossed the dark wood floor to sit at the bar out of habit; it was the best place to sit if he wanted to be on display and left him open to be more easily approached. A craggy-faced middle aged man sat in the corner of one end of the bar, so he sat at the other end. Setting his paper bag, umbrella and bowler hat in front of him on the dully gleaming wooden counter, he ordered a small ale from the bartender and surreptitiously cast his eye over the patrons.

The bartender was a greying, balding man at least a decade or two Thomas’s senior so he disregarded him without preamble. Other than himself, there were eleven other customers, three of which were women. A few of the older men stared back at him indifferently, displaying no more than perhaps the mild curiosity of a regular patron eyeing a stranger. The only man in the room that Thomas thought decent looking was so preoccupied with the young woman at his table that he never even noticed Thomas looking at him.

So much for that.

A bit disappointed despite having expected it, Thomas turned back to the bar to nurse his ale. If the leather boutique didn’t have anything he liked then he’d have to go check out Browns Department Store, which was a good ways away. If he walked there to save the motor-bus fare it would take up nearly the rest of the afternoon by the time he’d finished looking around the store. Then he could take a bus back to the train station with his luggage and pay a small fee to check them in early so he wouldn’t be stuck carrying them around. Once the evening came he’d have some more time to try his luck at a few of the other pubs he’d been to in the past.

His ale now nearly finished, Thomas debated getting something quick for lunch as he was already here. As he scanned the menu a quiet voice spoke.

“Is this seat taken?”

Thomas turned to find a man of average height – no more than five foot seven inches – he hadn’t yet seen before standing behind the empty chair beside him, giving him a timid little smile. He must have just come in. (*)

Thomas side-eyed the row of vacant bar stools beside him. “Take your pick,” he said, waving his hand at them.

The man sat down in the open seat right beside him, gesturing familiarly to the bartender. “Hello, Harold. Can I get some fish and chips and a small ale? Oh, and another for my friend here.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows as he glanced at the man who was watching him keenly with that same slightly nervous smile, wiping the palms of his hands on his knees. One look was enough to determine that he wasn’t Thomas’ type.

The man was maybe in his mid-thirties, blond with small blue eyes, a slightly fleshy, rounded jawline and the kind of pasty complexion that people who worked indoors tended to have. A glance at the soft lines of his body told Thomas that he was no sportsman; he had the physicality and smooth hands of a man that rarely, if ever, did any physical labour. But he had a pleasant sort of face, if not exactly a handsome one, and was neatly groomed and wearing a dark grey suit of decent quality. Thomas had certainly gone off with worse than him a few times over the years.

He decided not to decline the drink.

“Do you come here often?” the blond man asked, his accent that of a man that was at least somewhat educated, though Thomas could still hear the Yorkshire brogue beneath it. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in these parts before.”

“Who’s to say you haven’t?” Thomas countered lightly. “I’ve been here plenty of times over the years. Maybe you just don’t remember me.”

Thomas met the man’s eyes carefully and waited to see if he’d take up the bait.

“Oh, I think I’d remember you if I’d seen you,” he replied with an unexpected flicker of a smirk.

Thomas allowed a hint of a smile. “Are the fish and chips here any good? I was just thinking what I should order for lunch when you came in.”

“They’re the best in the area,” he proclaimed, seeming to relax a bit. “Decent price, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it then,” Thomas said, putting in an order of fish and chips for himself as the bartender set down their ales and then disappeared briefly into the kitchen. He finished off the remnants of his first ale before cupping his hand around the second. “Thank you for the drink, by the way.”

“Oh,” the man demurred. “You’re welcome...” He trailed off pointedly.

“Tom,” Thomas supplied, though he hated being called that. He hated the inelegant informality of it. _Tom_ was for unrefined men like Tom Branson. “Tom Parker.”

“Good to meet you, Mr Parker,” the man said extending his hand. It was a bit clammy as Thomas took it, but his handshake was warm and firm. “Colin Wilson.” He paused to take a long drink of his ale. “Are you from around here then? Since you’ve been coming here for years.”

“No, I’m just visiting. I live near enough to York though.”

“Oh?” Colin looked at him with polite interest. “Where?”

Thomas hesitated for a beat. “Dunnington.”

“Well, that’s real close then,” he affirmed, taking another sip of his drink. “Are you visiting for business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Thomas answered quietly with a coy smile. “But I’m not averse to some pleasure after my business is done.”

Colin coughed a bit on his ale, eyes widening slightly, before getting it safely down. His fingers played with his glass, nervousness palpable once again. He seemed not to be very accustomed to this kind of banter. Thomas decided to try and go easy on him.

“What about you?” he asked the man lightly, glancing over casually at the bartender to make sure he was still out of hearing range at the other end of the bar. The other patrons were either too far away or too busy talking themselves to overhear their exchange but Thomas lowered his voice instinctively. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”

Colin’s frown furrowed. “Here, as in the pub?”

Thomas gave a wave of his fingers from where his hand rested on the bar. “Sure, why not?”

“Oh, I’m just on my lunch break,” Colin explained quickly. “A rather late lunch break. We were busy at the bank all day. I couldn’t get away until now.”

“The bank?”

“Yes,” he answered, seeming to perk up a bit with pride. “I’m a manager at the Yorkshire Penny Bank.”

Colin Wilson the bank manager. Well, he was no duke but Thomas supposed he might be tolerable for an evening if he had enough drinks in him. He made small talk with the man about his work until their food came, replying when asked what he did for a living that he was moving cross country as butler to a duke.

“You’re a butler...to a duke,” Colin repeated a bit incredulously. “Well, no wonder you’re so...”

Thomas raised his brows coolly as the man floundered, waving a hand up and down his person as if in explanation. “So what?”

“Polished,” he replied after a beat.

“Am I?” Thomas joked, looking down at his brown three-piece suit and his hands, fingers grease-stained from the fish. “This isn’t even me best suit.”

Colin smiled as he let his upstairs accent drop for a moment. “Believe me, I’ve seen plenty men in expensive suits that didn’t carry them off half as well as you, Mr Parker.”

“Tom,” Thomas interjected. It was too weird to be called the same name as Andy. “And you flatter me.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true, Tom,” he asserted quietly.

“That’s good to know, considering I read somewhere that flattery corrupts both the receiver and the giver.” (*)

“Well, I wouldn’t dream of corrupting you so it must not be flattery.”

“What, not even a little?” Thomas drawled. “How disappointing.”

Colin’s face flushed as he huffed out a laugh. “Well, maybe a little,” he amended.

Thomas gave him a sultry little smile that had had a great deal of past success. “Just tell me when and where you want to corrupt me.”

The man’s eyes widened, as if shocked at his forwardness. When seconds passed without a reply Thomas quickly added, “Just kidding,” with a forced chuckle.

Colin seemed to snap out of his surprise, stuttering out in chagrin, “Oh, uh, no, I...uh, I’m sorry...I’m not very good at this. It’s been a long time since I’ve, uh, done this.”

Thomas gave a genuine chuckle this time. “It’s alright, it’s been a while for me, too. I’m...usually a bit more subtle.”

The man laughed, his cheeks colouring, “Well, if you’re in fact not joking then...I finish work at six if you want to meet somewhere afterwards.”

“All right,” Thomas agreed lightly. “Where? I should warn you that I have to catch a train for 8:15 so I don’t have too much time.”

“Here, or is there another pub you’d prefer?” Colin asked uncertainly. “Or a restaurant perhaps for dinner?”

“Maybe,” Thomas replied without much conviction. “Is there somewhere else we could go?”

“Somewhere else?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Thomas said simply, looking intently at him.

Colin blinked, comprehension slowly dawning on his features. “Well...we, uh, we could go to my flat. My flatmate works in the evening so he’ll be gone by five. I could meet you there by six-thirty.”

“That sounds all right,” Thomas agreed. “Whereabouts do you live?”

“About ten minutes walking distance from the train station,” he replied, taking a small notepad and short pencil from his inside jacket pocket and proceeding to write for a minute before looking up. “Here,” he said, neatly ripping out the paper and handing it to him. On it, Colin had written his street address and, to Thomas’ amusement, a small, precisely labelled map that showed the way from York Railway Station to his flat.

“Very thorough,” he praised Colin half-jokingly as he folded the paper and put it in his suit pocket. “Thank you.”

 Colin nodded with an easy smile as he pulled out his pocket watch and opened it. His smile dropped as he frowned at it.

“Quarter after four already?” he murmured worriedly. “Sorry but I’d best get a move on or I’ll be late getting back to the bank.” He began to eat hastily to make up the time he’d spent with Thomas doing more talking than eating.

“No problem,” Thomas replied, taking a drink of his ale. “I was wondering though...do you happen to know where a leather shop I was told is on Stonegate is? The woman who told me about it didn’t remember what it’s called. I looked for it on the way here from St Helen’s Square but I didn’t see one.”

Colin chewed his mouthful rapidly and swallowed before speaking. “Maybe she meant Swinton’s Leather Boutique. It’s not far from here, just about five minutes away. It’s actually on the corner of Stonegate and a little side street, so sometimes people miss the entrance. Just keep going away from the Square and keep your eyes on the left-hand side and I doubt you’ll miss it. They sell just about everything you can make with leather, excepting furniture. They make everything there by hand in the back workroom. My mum bought me a very nice briefcase for work from there years ago and I ordered a pair of shoes from there as well. The quality’s quite good if a bit pricey. What are you hoping to find there?”

He immediately resumed eating like he thought he was in a fish and chips eating contest, pausing only to gulp at his ale. Thomas surreptitiously studied his hand on the bar rather than watch. He didn’t judge the man for it; he understood entirely what it was like to have very little time to eat when working.

It had taken him years to consciously break himself of the bad habit he’d acquired at his previous place of employment before Downton Abbey of eating too fast because he had to get back to work. He hadn’t even really noticed the habit anymore until he’d caught the Duke of Crowborough staring at him, stunned, as he’d practically inhaled his food the first time that they’d had dinner together. Philip had quickly covered his reaction with a polite smile and an amused, “You must be very hungry, please don’t refrain on my account,” but the embarrassment he’d felt had been motivation enough to take more care of his manners in that area, and others.

“I need to buy a couple of suitcases for my move,” Thomas answered, picking idly at his chips before selecting a small piece to pop in his mouth. “I was also recommended Brown’s Department Store. Any idea what they’re like? I’ve never been further than their clothing section.”

“Hmm,” Colin paused to swallow again. “Brown’s has good quality luggage, too, with more than just leather to choose from so you can find suitcases a good deal cheaper there than at Swinton’s. It depends on what you’re wanting to pay. Though, personally, I’d say Swinton’s suits you more than Brown’s. Mr Swinton has a good eye for style as well as function and I can easily see you carrying most of the items in the shop.”

“I’ll keep that in mind then,” Thomas replied neutrally as he turned his focus to finishing his food before it was completely cold. Colin, predictably, finished before him and washed down his last mouthful with the rest of his ale before sliding off his stool.

“Well, I’d best be on my way,” he said as he pulled out a few coins and set them on the bar. “I, uh, I’ll see you later then. Good luck with finding what you’re after, Tom.”

With a quick wave at the bartender, he was gone.

Thomas took his time eating the rest of his food; the banker had been right about the fish and chips being good.

_Good luck with finding what I’m after_ , Thomas thought wryly to himself. He was sure finding suitable luggage would be a hell of a lot easier than finding a man worth going after. Those came few and far between and Colin Wilson certainly didn’t qualify. He had two hours and a bit to spare, should he try another pub before he resigned himself to someone he had no interest in or attraction to?

Absolutely.

He could spend the rest of the afternoon luggage shopping until it was evening and he could see if the night had anything better in store for him.

~*~*~*~

They were perfect.

And perfectly expensive for a working-class man like him.

_“’_ _O_ _w much?”_ Thomas asked Mr Swinton the younger, his voice coming out slightly higher than anticipated and the ‘h’ in how getting lost in his exclamation.

“Twenty pounds,” the shopkeeper repeated steadily. The young man’s middle-aged father could been seen working at a distant table in the back through the open door but he didn’t seem concerned by Thomas in the least, either that or he was so focused on what he was working on that he didn’t hear him.

“Twenty pounds,” Thomas echoed in disbelief, staring down at the gorgeous three-piece luggage set. They were a rich shade of leather with sturdy antique brass clasps, matching nailhead trim and flawlessly fine stitching. They were so elegant that they wouldn’t have looked out of place even had they belonged to a certain Duke himself. Thomas _wanted_ them. He coveted them like he hadn’t coveted a thing since he’d first caught sight of a bare-chested Jimmy Kent changing into his livery for the first time in 1920. Still, he frowned deeply. “That’s a working man’s salary for a month! They’re nice enough but they’re not _that_ nice.”

Thomas may not have been born in North Yorkshire but he’d lived there long enough to almost feel like he had, and no Yorkshire man worth his salt would just pay the asking price of anything without trying to get it for less. It was practically a county pastime to compete to be able to say you’d paid less for something than anyone else. The luggage was doubtlessly overpriced to compensate for hagglers. Just because he had £35 on him was no reason to waste a shilling more of it if he didn’t have to. (*)

The boy looked vaguely affronted beneath his shopkeeper’s veneer. “It’s full-grain leather, sir, processed using top of the line quality control and hand-stitched by...”

Thomas listened blank-faced as he went on, rather imperiously for a baby-faced tradesman, about why the luggage was priced as it was. He could only think at that moment that he wished he’d had time read up on the matter so he’d be better informed about what exactly the boy was rambling on about.

“......and a special finish has been applied to prevent stains from sinking into the leather,” the shopkeeper continued, concluding his long-winded speech about the merits of the merchandise.

“I’ll give you sixteen pounds for them,” Thomas submitted neutrally.

_“_ _Sixteen pounds?”_ Now the boy looked genuinely affronted as his service veneer began to crack. “Sir, this isn’t a flea market. Haggling may be permissible, even expected, in such a place but this not that sort of business.”

Thomas just shrugged and said placidly, “I see. Well, I still have other places to look so I’ll just be on my way. Thank you for your time.” He started resolutely for the door.

“Nineteen pounds then,” he heard over his shoulder just as his hand landed on the doorknob. He paused and glanced back at the young man impassively, staying in front of the door.

“Seventeen,” he countered firmly.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” the shopkeeper said with a shake of his head, though he didn’t sound very sorry.

“All right then,” Thomas accepted calmly and resumed turning the doorknob.

“I’ll throw in free engraving and luggage tags,” came the counter-offer.

His father’s engraved initials on his old valises flashed in Thomas’ mind and he let go of the knob. He turned on the spot to face the tense young man.

“Fine,” he proclaimed and the shopkeeper visibly perked up. “I’ll accept the free engraving and luggage tags for eighteen pounds.”

“Sir!” he exclaimed, sounding distressed and terribly young. Thomas doubted he could have been more than twenty. Had things gone differently in his life, it could have been Thomas standing watch, young and duty bound, over his father’s shop.

“Eighteen pounds, take it or leave it,” Thomas intoned immovably. The boy was looking a bit browbeaten and he felt a little guilty, like he was bullying an inexperienced child. From the look of the father, Thomas suspected he wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far had the man been the one up front doing the selling.

Finally the boy sighed loudly and relented, “Alright, eighteen pounds.” He weaved his way past the display table and behind the service counter. Thomas met him there as he rang up the sale on the cash register.

“As you may have noticed, sir, my father offers a ten-year guarantee on all of our products,” the shopkeeper continued, his voice the bored tone of someone who was reciting by rote as he gestured to a large sign behind the counter that had written that very thing (which Thomas had, in fact, noticed on first entering the shop). “So if you ever need the stitching repaired or clasps or nailheads fixed or replaced you can bring them back here and he’ll fix it. This, of course, applies only to normal wear and tear – if you leave it out in the rain or set it on fire or let an animal defecate in it or anything of that sort, we don’t cover that.”

Thomas stared a moment, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Does that happen often? That last one?”

The boy managed to look both appropriately blank-faced and aggravated at the same time. “More than you’d expect.”

“Interesting,” Thomas commented wryly and pulled out the bank notes he’d put in his inner vest pocket. “Just imagine if this was a farming community.”

The boy seemed to do just that, if the little face he pulled was any indication.

“I’d advise you to keep your sales receipt so we can verify the date of purchase if necessary later on,” the shopkeeper added tersely as he pulled out a receipt book and started to write up the sale. “Eighteen pounds please.” (*)

Thomas unfolded two ten pound notes and handed them to him, waiting as the boy took them and finished writing up the sales slip. He returned to the register, entering the payment and fishing out the correct change from the open drawer before closing it again.

“What initials will you have engraved, sir?” the shopkeeper asked as he passed Thomas the coins and the receipt. “And where would you like them?”

“TB, for Thomas Barrow...on the top centre,” he replied.

“Here?” The boy pointed at the place on one of the leather wallets in a basket on the counter.

“Yes,” Thomas verified as he tucked the sales slip and the rest of his bank notes away in his vest pocket and pulled his coin pouch out of his front pocket, dropping the coins inside. “Will it take long?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes,” the young man answered. “You’re welcome to wait if you’d like.” He pointed over to a worn leather bench near the door.

“Thank you,” Thomas said, choosing to wander around the store rather than sit waiting. He’d passed a display of leather gloves on his way to the suitcases that had caught his eye and decided to take another look.

Thomas had never owned leather gloves before. He had a single pair of thick woollen gloves for winter and that was it.

Philip had had many pairs of leather gloves of varying colours and styles, as no decent man of the upper classes would have left home without them even in the heat of summer. Thomas had occasionally admired them, even once tried them on when Philip was sleeping, but never let on that he might’ve liked a pair. Philip had seemed to quite like giving him things at every opportunity but Thomas had always felt strange about accepting gifts from him when they’d been together that summer, as though in doing so he was being paid for services rendered.

Thomas picked up a pair of black leather gloves he liked the look of, studying the precision of the stitching and giving them a feel. They weren’t as soft as Philip’s kidskin gloves, to be sure, but they still felt nice. They had a durable feel to them as well as softness which was more important to him in the long run. He was still working-class after all. He was about to try the gloves on when his eyes fell on a neatly printed sign that said: _Please ask for assistance. Do not try on gloves._

Thomas gave a little inward sigh before turning to the prickly shopkeeper who had brought his suitcases behind the service desk and was pulling out the tools he needed for the engraving. He couldn’t help but watch curiously for a moment – the clock maker in him interested to see how things were done – as the boy pulled out a box of metal engraving stamps, four C-clamps, a cylinder tool, a wooden mallet and a bevel tool and set them on a work table behind the service counter. The boy looked up at him from where he had picked out a _T_ and a _B_ from the box of stamps.

“Yes, sir? How may I help you?”

Thomas lifted the pair of gloves. “I wanted to try these on.”

The boy blew out a breath. “What glove size do you take?”

Thomas frowned, “About a ten, I think.”

The shopkeeper set aside the stamps to pull out a pair of black leather gloves similar to the ones he held from under the counter. “Size ten,” the boy announced as he handed them to Thomas.

Thomas tried not to think about how many men must have tried the gloves on before him and what they might have left behind as he pulled them on. He flexed his hand; they fit fairly well, not too tight or too loose and he thought they looked good on him. It would be nice to have a light pair of gloves to wear in autumn and spring, rather than just keeping his hands shoved in his coat pockets to keep warm on chilly days.

He tried to push away the part of his brain that could tell just from looking at them that they hadn’t been custom-made for him as all of Philip’s gloves had been. They were nice enough looking but they didn’t have quite the same refined appearance of the Duke’s perfectly close-fitting gloves. But Thomas was no nobleman. They would do.

“How much?” he inquired of the shopkeeper.

The boy eyed him warily. “Ten shillings. And _please_ don’t try to wrangle me about the price. I’m already going to hear about the suitcases from my father.”

Thomas decided to take pity on him, though his woollen gloves at home had cost him less than two shillings. “Ten shillings it is then.” (*)

See? He was being nicer already.

Thomas handed the boy a crown, two florins and two sixpence for the gloves. He then noticed two baskets of small suitcase padlocks and keys and luggage tags. He bought three locks at full price and selected a trio of luggage tags, holding them up to remind the boy that he hadn’t forgotten that he was to have have them for free. The boy gave a slightly irritated sigh and wrote up the sales slips for all the merchandise and rang them up. A rather nice wallet in the basket caught his eye as he finished paying and he had to force his gaze away and borrow a fountain pen and ink to write his information on his new luggage tags instead.

His heart sped up slightly as he stared down at the address he’d written on them in a daze: _Crowborough Castle, Crowborough, East Sussex._ It still felt like he was dreaming on that score. He kept expecting to wake up and find himself still at Downton Abbey, unwanted and with no place to go.

It probably wouldn’t start feeling real to him until he was actually at Crowborough.

He then relegated himself to the bench and to reading the rest of his boring mystery novel. Better to stay out of the boy’s way and stop looking at things before he ended up buying half the shop.

~*~*~*~

Thomas ran his thumb almost reverently over his perfectly engraved initials on the largest suitcase, the expense of them forgotten in his unexpectedly strong pleasure in the moment. And it wasn’t just because his new luggage set was beautiful, he realized. They could have been an average, unremarkable set from Brown’s Department Store and he still would’ve felt happy.

They were _his_.

After twenty-three years of having to use his father’s stolen valises he’d finally been able to buy his own. It felt strangely like he’d just stepped out of a dark shadow of his father’s lingering presence in his life that he hadn’t quite realized was still looming over him until that moment.

Now he could send them back to his father with the message, spoken or unspoken, that he didn’t need anything from the man anymore – just in case he hadn’t already made himself clear on that score. Or hell, he could just throw them in the river.

Thomas smiled to himself.

Why hadn’t he thought to replace them sooner?

Pleased, Thomas handed the puzzled looking shopkeeper a florin before making his way out with his new purchases.

“For your services, Mr Swinton.”

~*~*~*~

Thomas set his luggage down as he reached the motor-bus stop he’d asked the shop boy the directions to. He’d put everything he’d bought that day inside the largest suitcase; the sun was still blazing and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky so Thomas hoped he’d have no need for his umbrella. He’d affixed the luggage tags and fit the smallest suitcase inside the medium sized one so he’d only have two bags to carry and locked them. They may have been mostly empty and didn’t weigh all that much but he still didn’t want to be lugging them around York.

4:55 pm, read Thomas’ pocket watch as he checked it.

It would be ten minutes before the bus came, another five minutes or so to get to the train station, and at least another five or ten minutes to get to check his bags in early at the station, depending on how long the queue was.

His day was just bleeding away. He might just have to settle for the banker for lack of time to find anyone better. He wouldn’t even have time to visit the soaring Gothic beauty of York Minster this time around, something he secretly enjoyed doing when visiting the city despite having not been raised as a part of the Church of England.

Maybe he should, he realized. Who knew how many years it might be before he’d be visiting York again? Surely there were pubs to be had in Sussex but for all he knew, no cathedrals worth looking at.

He could do both, he decided quickly.

York had more pubs per capita than any city or town he’d ever been to in his life, it wouldn’t be hard to make a short visit to the Minster and find a pub nearby. Somehow he doubted he was the only man to ever go to church then to straight to drinking thereafter. Though he was probably one of the few who was more interested in finding a good-looking man to bed than in the drink itself.

He’d have to take the motor-bus around the city to save time though. So much for not wasting money on bus fare.

~*~*~*~

It was 5:45 pm by the time Thomas finished his all too brief visit of York Minster but he felt an air of calmness, of contemplativeness, that he’d been missing for a while just from having been there.

Thomas couldn’t honestly say that he was a particularly religious person – he found it rather hard to have much, if any, faith in a being and an institution that decreed that he was to burn in hell for all eternity – but there was something about the atmosphere of a church that Thomas rarely felt anywhere else. The only times he’d felt it outside of one had been while walking by himself in the open countryside. Those extraordinary moments were better than any church-induced peacefulness. It was a sense of tranquility and connectedness that descended gently and gradually until he was, for a short while, whole within it. Thomas had had the thought as a boy that if Heaven was a place where you could suspend but a few moments in time to be relived again and again at will, Thomas would certainly choose those moments as one of them.

He’d been mentally trapping rare moments in amber all his life, saying to himself, “I never want to forget this as long as I live. I want to keep every part of this moment forever.”

Flashes of radiant happiness to string together in the darkness.

Captured moments with his mother – of being small and cradled in her lap as she hugged him, read to him, sang to him, brushed his hair. Of sitting with his mother in her little garden as the summer was ending, watching as she showed him how to weave a crown out of flowers and then smiling as she put it on his head (he’d tried to forget the flaw in the amber of that moment that had been his father pulling the crown roughly out of his hair and crushing it underfoot mere minutes later, berating his mother for making him more of a sissy than he already was).

He’d even managed to keep a few nice memories of his sister, the last of which had been the Christmas he’d been twelve years old. It had been the last year they’d all been together as a family, the last Christmas before Laura had married and before his mother had gotten sick. Phyllis Baxter had been able to come home that Christmas from the house she’d worked at and his sister had been thrilled to have her best friend back again. Their little brother, Daniel, had been five years old and running around with unrestrained enthusiasm – not yet killed by the Great War – driving Laura and Phyllis up the wall by eating the popped corn they’d been stringing almost as fast as they could string it. Even his father had been in a good mood, singing carols along with his mother and sister with a surprisingly good voice. Thomas found it hard to remember that Christmas without thinking that it was also one of the last times they’d truly been a family.

He’d kept Jimmy Kent, golden in the sunlight and laughing at some witty remark Thomas had made. Jimmy who would ignore Alfred and the hallboys to keep company with him over them. His friend, despite knowing who and what he was and the feelings he’d tried so hard to keep in check, so near and yet so untouchable.

And he’d trapped far too many moments with Philip during their summer – moments of wild, unrestrained passion, yes, but somehow it was the quiet moments of being lazily entwined, by limbs and fingers, breath and sweat, so close together that it seemed impossible to find where Thomas began and Philip ended, that were seared deepest in his memory for how very _right_ they had felt.

In comparison, this, his pounding of the York pavement in search of a decent pub to hopefully find a more physically appealing man to have a hurried, one-time encounter with felt wrong, felt cheap. Perhaps it was the desolation of the last fifteen months that was casting a pall over things, or perhaps he’d simply been changed forever because of it. The thrill of the hunt, the intrigue of seduction, didn’t seem to hold the same appeal that it once had.

It didn’t help that somewhere in the back of his mind, that place that he was trying to stifle, he felt kind of guilty about even looking for another man when he’d led Colin the banker on so hard and agreed to meet him. What was wrong with him? In the past he wouldn’t have thought twice about standing up a man he didn’t like and throwing him over for someone else.

_Am I_ _mellowing with age_ _?_ _How disappointing._

Guilt suddenly unstifled, the man’s kind, skittish demeanour came back to him. His apology at not being very good at the bantering game, his confession of not having done that sort of thing in a long time. Thomas could now empathize with those sentiments far more than he wanted to. Despite his trying to resist it, all he could think was how dejected _he_ would feel if some man he’d been attracted to and had the courage to go up to had led him on and then just left him waiting without even the courtesy of a half-arsed excuse.

“Fuck,” Thomas muttered under his breath at the bad feeling that settled in his gut, halting abruptly on the walkway and nearly making a man run into him.

_Is this what having a conscience feels like?_

“Watch where you’re goin’!” the man groused at him, stepping angrily around him and continuing on.

Thomas absently moved to the side and found his way to a nearby bench.

What the hell was wrong with him? Life was so much easier when he could count the people he actually cared about on one hand and not give a damn about anyone else.

Of course, that approach to life had also resulted in no one giving a damn about him either. Being a bastard certainly hadn’t gotten him anywhere in life, maybe he should try being someone else for a while and see how it went.

It wasn’t as though being a good person had to be written in stone.

The least he could do was give Colin a chance. It wasn’t as though he was repulsed by the man or anything and after this evening he would never see him again.

Just because the thought of the man didn’t give Thomas a hint of a thrill didn’t mean Thomas couldn’t give the man one instead. After all, it wasn’t as though Thomas met nice men very often.

Or perhaps he met them but just didn’t notice them.

There was something about the dark streak that ran though the less than nice ones that just gave him a wicked thrill. And he’d always been drawn to a challenge, especially if said challenge came in the form of a beautiful man that he had no business putting his hands on.

But the unremarkable Colin Wilson would just have to do for that evening.

He just needed to get himself back on the horse, somehow, someway...and perhaps it was wiser to start with a gentle mare than to go looking for a stallion.

~*~*~*~

It was 6:35 pm by the time Thomas found himself walking up the half-dozen steps that led to a handsome terrace house a couple streets away from the train station. He paused on the front stoop, removing his hat and running a hand over his hair to smooth any strands that might have been unsettled by it.

He clenched his hand tightly around the paper bag that held a bottle of wine he’d stopped in at a liquor shop near the station to buy. He’d told himself that it was only polite to bring something when invited to someone’s house for the first time, but he knew the wine was more for himself than out of any sense of etiquette.

Thomas had a feeling he was going to need a good deal of alcohol in his system before he’d be able to relax enough to get anywhere that evening.

Taking a deep breath and then expelling it hard, he set his hat back on his head to free his hand and hesitatingly rang the doorbell. He waited what seemed at least a minute without hearing any sounds from within and found himself hoping that maybe the man hadn’t arrived home yet so he’d have an excuse to leave. Just as he was debating ringing the doorbell again or turning to leave he heard the sound of the door being unlocked and it opened to reveal Colin.

The man had removed his suit jacket and tie but was otherwise still buttoned up to the neck in the same clothing he’d been wearing earlier. His small, pale blue eyes stared up at Thomas almost wonderingly and it took him a few moments to find his voice.

“...Mr Parker, uh, Tom. Hello.”

“Hello again, Mr Wilson,” Thomas said, giving him a small smile.

“Oh, please, call me Colin.”

His smile grew. “Colin it is.” He raised the paper sack with the bottle of wine, offering it a bit awkwardly. “I, uh, hope you like red wine.”

“Oh, I do,” Colin reassured him quickly, reaching out to take it with an air of pleased surprise. “Thank you. You didn’t need to bring anything, but it’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to enjoy a nice red wine. Not since Christmas I think. Oh.” He released a nervous laugh, pausing to look at Thomas still standing on the front stoop. “Where are my manners? Please come in.”

He stepped back from the doorway to let Thomas cross the threshold.

“Thank you,” Thomas said as he removed his bowler. Colin reached out wordlessly to take it and put it on a side table near the door.

He glanced around the small entrance area, which featured nothing more than a wooden coat rack with two coats hanging from it, the side table with a set of keys and some mail on it along with a handsome leather briefcase on the floor beside, and a large framed photograph of a somewhat younger Colin with a pretty, dark haired woman of a similar age on the wall. A set of carpeted stairs ran up from the entrance hall beside a long narrow hallway that appeared to lead to the kitchen. There were an identical pair of arched doorways on each side of the front hall.

On the right-hand side was a small dining room containing an oak wood table big enough to seat six; one end of the table was cluttered with papers, books and a few pots of ink. There was a lone painting of a vase of flowers on the bare expanse of the wall. On the left hand side was a sitting room featuring a plain and practical looking dark brown sofa flanked by a pair of slightly dusty wooden end tables, a worn armchair and a low oak table topped with a crocheted runner and a cup and saucer. Most of the furniture didn’t match. There were a few small photographs scattered on the end tables, a medium sized painting of a pastoral landscape on the wall over the sofa, and a single tall book case crammed with inexpensive looking books. All of the walls as far as the eye could see were painted an off-colour shade of white.

To Thomas, all too accustomed to the trappings of great houses, it was both underwhelming and novel for its very ordinariness.

“You have a nice place,” Thomas offered politely.

“It’s all right I suppose,” Colin replied with a modest shrug. “Kind of sparse, I’m told, but what do you expect from two bachelors who are barely at home? My mum says it needs a woman’s touch. Anything in here that’s actually nice, she chose it.”

“Two bachelors?” Thomas looked at him with interest. “I assume this is the flatmate you mentioned earlier?”

“Yes, my cousin,” he answered matter-of-factly. “He’s a confirmed bachelor at this point. He’s basically married to his work.”

“Your cousin?” Thomas echoed curiously.

“Hmm. He needed somewhere to live and I certainly don’t mind having someone to split the rent with.”

“I’m kind of glad he’s your cousin,” he admitted. “When you said you had a flatmate I wondered if...”

Colin caught Thomas’ gaze as he trailed off and chuckled. “...If he was actually my lover and I was philandering by inviting you over while he was out?”

A chuckle escaped him as well at that. “The thought did cross my mind.”

Colin’s smile faded slightly, a brief shadow passing over his face. “No, I haven’t really been...I haven’t been in a relationship with anyone in years. There have been the occasional, uh, passing of a ship or two in the night but that’s it.” He paused, seemingly a bit discomfited, and cast an eye over Thomas. “Did you find anything at the shop? I don’t see any luggage.”

“Oh, I did,” Thomas verified, allowing the change in subject to pass. “You were right about Swinton’s. I found a fine set there, though I must say, it was on the expensive side.”

“True,” he agreed with sympathetic wince. “But they’re very well-made. I’ve been using that briefcase my mum bought me every day since the war ended and it’s still in good shape. Is someone keeping them for you then?”

“I checked them in at the train station so I wouldn’t have to carry them about,” Thomas explained.

Colin nodded and turned down the hall. Thomas followed him into the kitchen as he set the wine down on a counter and rifled through a few drawers until he found a corkscrew. He opened a cupboard and carefully took down a pair of wine glasses from the top shelf. He then pulled the wine bottle out of the paper bag and struggled to uncork it. Thomas hesitated a few moments, watching him and worrying that he would accidentally push the cork down into the bottle rather than draw it out, before speaking.

“Here, let me,” he offered quietly, reaching out a hand. Colin passed it to him and watched as Thomas deftly popped the cork out.

“Well, you certainly made that look easy,” Colin said with a sheepish smile, taking the corkscrew back from him and tossing it into the drawer.

“The benefit of having had a lot of practice,” Thomas replied with a confident smile. “The first time I had to open a bottle of champagne as a hallboy, the cork popped right out and flew straight into the footman’s eye. And a third of the bottle spilled out onto the floor.”

Colin chuckled. “Oh dear. Was the footman very cross?”

A tense smile. “Quite.”

Malcolm – the footman – had called him a “bloody idiot” and struck him across the face so hard he’d fallen and spilled the rest of the bottle. In the next minute he’d been kneeling beside Thomas on the ground, cupping his throbbing cheek in his hand and tenderly stroking his thumb over it.

Sometimes Thomas thought it was a miracle he’d ever learned to be a footman at all with such a mercurial teacher as Malcolm Pearce. He’d come to work for the Gibson family as their footman when Thomas was seventeen and he’d been, at the time, the most handsome man he’d ever seen. Malcolm been his first real lover and relationship.

Thomas cared to think about him even less than he cared to think about Philip Somerset.

“But then he’d always been cross about one thing or another,” Thomas continued indifferently. “That cork gave him a good shiner for nearly a week.” He gave a sarcastic shrug. “Can’t claim to have felt too bad about it though. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow.”

Thomas picked up one of the wine glasses and filled it partially, handing it to Colin.

“Thank you,” he said as he took the glass. “Are you hungry? I picked up something for dinner on my way home. I thought it best not to subject you to what passes for my cooking on your first visit.” He gave a little self-depreciating laugh.

Thomas raised his eyebrows as he poured himself a glass. “You cook?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Colin mused. “I don’t think we’ve quite invented the word yet for what I do to food in the kitchen but, well, I am a bachelor and I can’t afford to eat out every day. And my cousin burned out his sense of taste with gin and cigarettes years ago – he’ll eat anything, so long as it’s dead.” He flashed a grin and took a sip from his glass, pausing to taste it. “This is good wine.”

Thomas took a careful sip. “It’s not too bad,” he assessed lightly.

He’d bought a decently priced bottle, neither cheap nor expensive, and it tasted well enough. Thomas supposed he’d ruined himself for being able to enjoy cheaper wine years ago after having illicitly drunk so much of the Crawleys’ expensive wine during his tenor at Downton.

Colin seemed amused by his reply. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of practice choosing wine as well?”

“You could say that,” Thomas chuckled. “Ten-course meals are common for family I’ve been working for and every course is served with its own wine. And then the type of wine varies depending on what kind of meat or fish or cheese or dessert is being served.”

“Ten courses?” he raised his brows, stunned. “How does anyone eat that much in one sitting? That’s probably why nobles need footmen – they’re so stuffed with food they can barely move to serve themselves. They probably need to be rolled away afterwards.”

Thomas smiled. “Well, the portion sizes tend to be quite small and the courses are spaced out over a couple of hours.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed by my lack of ceremony and fancy food but if you’ll wait in the dining room, I’ll be happy to wait on you,” Colin said amiably as he moved over to the oven, opening it to peer at the food he’d presumably put in there to keep warm.

“No need,” Thomas waved off lightly. “I’m used to waiting on myself.”

“And others,” he added pointedly. “All the more reason to let me play waiter just this once.”

Thomas looked at him a moment, then relented. If Colin fancied waiting on him, who was Thomas to stop him?

“All right, suit yourself then. I’ll just go wash up in the meantime. Which way is your lavatory?”

Colin pointed to a small hallway that went off the kitchen. “It’s just at the end of the hall.”

“Thanks,” he replied as he left the kitchen and followed the hallway past the back door and to the lavatory. He turned on the light and closed the door behind him, leaning back against it with a sigh.

_Well, things could be going worse_ , he reassured himself.

Colin seemed like an all right fellow and he was more relaxed at home than he’d been at the pub. Thomas didn’t mind the idea so much of spending an evening in his company but...there was no spark. Thomas didn’t feel an ounce of attraction, no real desire to go to bed with him and that had been the purpose of all this, hadn’t it?

He groaned under his breath and buried his face in his hands. He left them there a minute, slowly breathing in and out until his face started to feel hot and he pulled them away.

_Wine. I just needed to drink more wine_ , he thought as he used the toilet and then turned on the faucet to wash his hands. He was relieved to note that while the lavatory wasn’t spotless, it was fairly clean.

He dried his hands on a towel, clenching harder than necessary at the feeling of ‘ _this is wrong’_ and ‘ _I can’t do this’_ trying to push itself to the surface. He loitered several more minutes before he felt collected enough to leave the lavatory and make his way to the dining room.

When Thomas arrived Colin had cleared away everything that had been on the table earlier and set two places. Serving dishes of roast beef, roasted potatoes, vegetables and some sort of cake had been laid out as well as salt, black pepper and a dish of butter. He’d brought their glasses and the wine bottle in from the kitchen and Thomas was glad to see that the wine he’d chosen would go well with what they had to eat. Colin looked up from where he was slicing the roast beef as Thomas entered.

“Ah, good evening, sir!” he proclaimed cheerfully at the sight of him, setting the knife down on the platter and coming over to him.

Colin pulled out the chair at the head of the table for Thomas and he sat down, unable to keep from smiling. Colin was a nice sort of sap, he had to admit.

“Good evening,” Thomas returned with a small chuckle as Colin unfurled a folded cloth napkin with a snap and laid it over his lap. “Thank you.”

“I hope the food’s all right,” he said a bit anxiously, seating himself in the chair adjacent to Thomas’. “I know it’s nothing fancy -”

“It looks good,” Thomas interjected kindly. “Better than what I get to eat most nights.”

“Really?” Colin’s brow furrowed. “I’d have thought a nobleman could afford better quality food than most people.”

“Oh, well, he can,” he replied, a bit derisively. “But that’s generally for the family itself, not the servants. The only time we get the fancy stuff is if it’s leftover. Which is not to say that we’re not well fed, it’s just all ordinary fare really.”

“I see,” Colin murmured. “Well, I feel a bit better then. I got the food from a family friend that has a restaurant nearby but if I’d have known I’d be having a dinner guest today, I’d have asked my mum to make the roast instead. This one’s pretty good, but it can’t beat my mum’s. She cooks and brings stuff over sometimes but sadly I’d already eaten everything she’d brought me.”

“Does she live nearby then?” Thomas asked, taking his wine glass and draining it in a few gulps.

“About fifteen minutes from here,” he replied as he lifted the platter of roast beef and held it near Thomas’ plate so he could serve himself.

“Ah,” Thomas said as interestedly as he could, taking a few thick slices of beef off the platter. “Does she visit often?” He reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass and topped off Colin’s for good measure.

“Once or twice a week,” he answered, exchanging the beef platter for the roast potato one and offering it. “She doesn’t visit my brothers nearly as much. I think she feels like I need to be looked in on, being the youngest and all. And not having a wife to look after me.”

“Oh, are you looking for one then?” Thomas joked, as he spooned some potatoes out onto his plate.

“I...I don’t know,” Colin’s smile faded as he set the platter back down. “I was married, for a year or so, but that was during the war so I had to leave again a week after the wedding. By the time the war ended and I came home, the Spanish flu had taken her.”

Thomas sobered as Colin picked up his glass and took a deep drink of the wine. “...I’m sorry.” He remembered the photograph in the front hall and wondered if that had been Colin’s wife.

He looked down at his hands. “Never much cared to look for another wife after that, though my family is always telling me I should get remarried. Hannah was the only girl I ever loved, knew her since we were kids. I can’t imagine being married to anyone but her.”

Thomas’ brows drew together as he asked haltingly, “But you...did she know about you? About you liking men?”

He couldn’t help but be curious. Just how many homosexual men out there had wives and was _Thomas_ the rarity for refusing to walk the conventional path even among men like himself?

Colin looked up at him, eyes disquieted. “I think she knew that there was something different about me but we didn’t really talk about it much. She knew that I loved her and that was enough. I was never...I’d never been with anyone other than her until a few years after she’d died.”

“With a man, you mean?” Thomas asked, hoping he wasn’t being too intrusive in his inquisitiveness.

Colin nodded gravely. “I’d been aware that I was sometimes attracted to men as well as women since I was fifteen but I loved Hannah and I knew that I wanted to marry her and I just...didn’t give into that part of myself. After she was gone, I tried to look at other women but I couldn’t stop comparing them to Hannah and finding my feelings for them lacking. I didn’t want to dally with a woman if I didn’t have serious intentions, and eventually I resigned myself to a life alone until I met a man at work and...well, he ended up being my first male love affair.”

“What happened to him?”

“He moved away nearly three years ago. Things didn’t work out in the end, obviously.”

Thomas gave a wry chuckle. “Isn’t that the way of it?”

“Unfortunately, that has been the way of it so far,” Colin returned with a wry smile of his own as he sipped at his wine. “How about you? What’s your story?”

“My story?” Thomas hesitated, reaching for his own glass. “I don’t know that it’s good dinner conversation.”

“Then tell me what you will,” he said lightly, setting down his glass and starting to fill his plate with food. “Tell me something about you. All I know so far is that you’re a handsome butler from Dunnington that’s moving to work for a duke.”

Thomas smirked and took a deep drink of his wine. “What do you want to know?”

Colin waved a hand. “Anything. Everything. What’s your favourite colour?”

Thomas chuckled. “I don’t know that I should answer that. It’s rather personal, don’t you think?”

“You’re right, what was I thinking?” he joked. “Your family then. Tell me about them.”

Thomas paused, sobering, and reached for the wine bottle to refill their glasses. “Not much to tell. I haven’t seen any of my family in years.”

“Oh?” he asked curiously.

Thomas sighed inwardly. Colin had told him about himself so he figured it was only fair that he do some sharing in return.

“My father threw me out of the house when he found out about me. I haven’t seen him in over twenty years. And my older sister doesn’t approve of me being the way I am, she doesn’t have much of anything to do with me. She has children but I’ve never met them. I suppose she thinks I’ll be a bad influence on them. I had a younger brother but my father never let him keep in contact with me, and then he was killed during the war. And my mother died when I was fourteen.”

“I’m so sorry,” Colin said softly, his blue eyes sombre.

Thomas gave him a crooked smile. “I told you it wasn’t good dinner conversation.”

“It’s all right, I did ask,” he replied, then sighed. “And here I’ve been going on about my mum since I met you.”

“It’s all right,” Thomas chuckled, then joked, “I often attract men who spend unusual amounts of time talking about their mothers.” Colin raised his eyebrows. “Does she know about you? Your mother?”

Thomas had wondered many times if his mother would have accepted him had she lived long enough to find out about his true nature.

Subdued, he replied, “...Yes, now. She found out back when I was in my first relationship with a man. Walked in on me with him in the kitchen one day. She was rather horrified and didn’t talk to me for days. She’s still uncomfortable about it and she keeps pushing me to start seeing women and get married again. My father still doesn’t know though. He’d probably disown me if he did. One of my sisters know but none of my brothers. They...wouldn’t take it well if they knew. My oldest brother especially despises homosexuals. Once said that they should never have taken away the death penalty, that they should be shot on sight rather than jailed.”

Thomas’ eyes widened. “Crikey, Christmas with your family must be fun.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “It’s like chain smoking over an open crate of dynamite.”

“I’ll bet,” Thomas stated grimly, taking a deep gulp of his wine.

“I’m sorry, perhaps family was a poor choice of topic,” Colin said with an apologetic wince.

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Thomas gave him a cheeky smile as he felt the effects of the wine starting to spread in waves of tingling warmth throughout his body. “At least now I’m more appreciative of not having seen my family in so long.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Happy to be of service. Dare we make a return to your favourite colour?”

Thomas grinned and batted his eyelashes at him. “Would you believe me if I told you it’s lavender?”

Colin gave a full out laugh and his pale pink, thin-lipped mouth started to look just a little more appealing...

~*~*~*~

“Thank you for dinner,” Thomas said warmly as he wiped his mouth with his napkin, his plate emptied. “I must say I wasn’t expecting to be wined and dined when I came.”

Colin’s pale face was flushed with drink as he put in, “Well, you wined. I dined.” He gave a high laugh. “Did that make sense? I think all that wine is starting to go to my head.”

“I think I caught your meaning,” he assured and reached out to put his hand over Colin’s. “Perhaps we could finish the bottle elsewhere? Upstairs maybe?”

Colin reddened further. “Uh, yes. That’s a good idea. After you.”

Thomas stood and picked up his glass and the bottle. Colin followed him as he made his way up the stairs.

_~*~*~*~_

Thomas stared blankly up at the ceiling as he lay on his back in Colin’s bed.

“I can’t believe we’ve just done that,” came Colin’s voice, dazed and happy, from beside him. “When I saw you sitting there in the pub, I never imagined you’d give me the time of day.” He rested his hand on Thomas’ bare chest. “Are you really moving across the country?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied quietly, arms resting limply at his sides.

“I suppose you won’t be visiting York anymore,” Colin said, voice heavy with regret.

“Who knows?” Thomas murmured. Philip might take one look at him and put him out on the street. “I might, but probably not for a long time.” Colin’s unhappy silence seemed to fill the room and Thomas sat up. “I’m sorry to end the evening like this but I have to get going or I’ll miss my train.”

He stood from the bed and padded barefoot over to the chair where he’d put his suit jacket and pulled his handkerchief from the pocket. He wiped at the bit of drying dampness on his stomach as best he could and then refolded the square of cloth and pushed it back into his pocket. He glanced back at Colin who was watching him sadly.

“Do you remember the way? I could walk you there,” he offered. He was naked in the bed but for a sheet covering him from the waist down. Thomas had taken off everything but his shirt; unbuttoning it to keep it cleaner had been his only concession.

Thomas had claimed it was to save time and he’d never even undone his cufflinks. If Colin had thought it strange he hadn’t said anything about it. Thomas was just relieved that the still all too freshly healing scars on his wrists had been concealed. Not to mention the hideous scar on his hip from the abscess that had formed because of all the injections he’d given himself. That one had been harder to keep hidden.

He was angry with himself for having forgotten about the scars, for having somehow forgotten that he was no longer physically whole.

He was no longer the same flawlessly beautiful young man who’d managed to catch the eye of a duke so many moons ago.

Perhaps men of the calibre of Colin Wilson was the best he had to look forward to in life now. What a depressing thought.

“I remember, but thanks,” Thomas told him, not unkindly, as he dressed. “Sun’ll be going down soon – you shouldn’t walk home in the dark. I was robbed once not far from the station at night.”

“What about you?” Colin asked, concerned.

“It’ll still be light out long enough for me to make it to the station,” he insisted and Colin fell silent. He finished dressing quickly and opened his pocket watch.

7:49 pm. He’d better shake a leg.

Colin finally spoke, getting out of bed and taking a housecoat off a hook on the bedroom door. “I’ll show you to the door.”

Thomas waited for him to pull the robe on and then followed him downstairs. He turned back to face Colin as they reached the front door.

“Thank you for the evening. I enjoyed your company.”

“I’m glad I met you, Tom,” Colin said with a soft smile, looking up at him.

“Thomas, my name is Thomas,” he found himself volunteering haltingly. It felt wrong to let a man who’d been so nice to him call him by the wrong name.

Colin just regarded him curiously. “Well, I’m happy to have met you, Thomas. I’ve not enjoyed a day this much in a long time. I’m...sorry to see you go.”

“Now there’s something I don’t hear often,” Thomas joked weakly.

Colin looked at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Most people tend not to care much for me,” Thomas admitted. “Though to be fair, I don’t generally care much for them either.” He paused, then put out his hand. “I...am glad to have met you today, too. I don’t meet men as kind as you very often. I hope things get better for you, truly.”

“Thank you,” Colin said, taking Thomas’ hand in both of his with a sadness-tinged smile. “I hope you find happiness, Thomas. Good luck with your new job...and everything else.”

Thomas squeezed his hand before withdrawing it. “Thank you.” He opened the door before turning back. “Good luck to you, too. Goodbye, Colin.”

“Bye,” he whispered as he stood in the doorway, watching Thomas descend the steps and cross the yard.

Thomas was just pulling open the front gate when he heard, “Thomas!” and turned around.

Colin stood there looking as anxious as he had when he’d first met him in the pub. Thomas wouldn’t have been surprised if his hands were clammy. “...I, uh, if you ever feel like you want someone to talk to about, well, things you can’t talk about with most people, you have my address. You could write to me, if you felt like it.” He released a nervous chuckle. “It would be nice to get something other than bills in the post.”

“I...will keep that in mind,” Thomas replied, faintly amused, and smiled. “I’d better hurry. Good night.”

“Good night, Thomas.”

Perhaps he would write to him, Thomas thought as he hurried along. Maybe. If he felt like it.

Heaven knew he needed more friends in life.

And well, it _would_ be nice to have something to look forward to in the post again.

_~*~*~*~_

Footnotes:

Average height for a man in the UK in 1900 was about 5’7’’. By the 70s and 80s, it was 5’8’’ and now it’s about 5’10’’. In view of that, the Duke at 5’10’’ would’ve been tall for that time, Thomas was very tall and, well, Alfred would’ve just been a giant. lol

(Such a large increase in the average height over a relatively short period of time – only a couple of decades really – makes me wonder if those people who insist on eating only organically grown foods aren’t onto something. The height increase is inconsistent with the natural rate of growth of humans that has occurred over much of history – perhaps we’re ingesting too many growth hormones in our food? Am I the only one who finds many kids today to be unusually tall? My cousin has been 6’3’’ since he was fifteen. And my other cousin is fourteen and she’s at least three inches taller than me and I’m average height, so it’s like, what are these kids eating? lol)

“Flattery corrupts both the receiver and the giver, and adulation is not of more service to the people than to kings.”

― Edmund Burke (1729-1797), Reflections on the Revolution in France

1925 vs. 2017 (reflecting historical inflation rates)

£35 = £1956.50 ($2564.38 USD)

£18 = £1006.20 ($1318.83 USD)

10 shillings (a half pound) = £27.95 ($36.88 USD)

(Paid with: a crown (5s), two florins (4s), and two sixpence (12 pence=1shilling))


	6. Chapter Five

 

Chapter Five

 

“ _So it’s gonna be forever_

_Or it’s gonna go down in flames_

_You can tell me when it’s over_

_If the high was worth the pain.”_

Taylor Swift _, Blank Space_

_~*~*~*~_

It was already well and dark by the time Thomas got off the train. Downton Village’s little depot was entirely deserted, the building locked up and a single light left on to illuminate the platform. He was the only one to have gotten off at Downton so there was no one around but him and his suitcases.

The coppery clean scent of rain clung to the air and the streets shone wet in the faint light from the street-front facing windows and the distantly spaced electric lamps. Thomas just hoped that the rain would hold off on a repeat performance long enough for him to make the walk back to Downton.

Thomas glanced quickly at the time – 8:54 pm.

He sighed, lifted his luggage, and carefully hopped over a puddle of muddy water pooling at the base of the platform’s stairs to walk down the soggy dirt path leading away from the station. It was a good forty-five minute walk from the depot back to the house so he’d better get a move on. With the suitcases weighing him down, growing ever heavier the longer he carried them, they could add another five to ten minutes to his walk back when he factored in the exhaustion suffusing his body.

No public transportation and no access to a telephone thanks to the locked depot to call and ask if the chauffeur would mind coming to collect him. The nearest available public telephone was at the Inn and Thomas would have already walked more than half-way through town by the time he reached it. Ah, the convenience of country living.

Thomas had been walking for little more than five minutes when he felt the first telltale drop of water land on his cheek and groaned.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered irritably. As if in answer, another fat drop decided to land right in his eye. “Excellent.” He blinked his water-logged eye and tried to wipe awkwardly at it with his upper arm while continuing to walk. The next series of raindrops – coming in a more frequent succession – only served to deepen his appreciation of the fact that he had an umbrella in his bag but no free hand to hold it.

With no other alternative, he trudged along, perfectly peevish with the knowledge that he would be soaked by the time he arrived back at the house. It would be a miracle if his suit dried out by morning.

Thomas been walking for nearly fifteen increasingly rainy minutes when he heard a motor car of some sort nearby. He kept moving as a lorry slowed to a crawl beside him, pausing only when a loud, boisterous voice called out to him.

“Eh there! I know you, don’t I? You work up at the big house.”

Thomas took the opportunity to set the suitcases down on the walkway and flex his wet hands. His wounded hand felt particularly stiff.

“Yes, that’s right,” he answered cautiously, peering into the lorry to see the driver through the curtain of his dark, dripping bangs.

The man who looked out at him was in late middle-age, bald and stout and Thomas recognized him as both the Abbey’s produce supplier and the one time suitor of Mrs Patmore, Mr Tufton.

“You look like you could use a lift,” he stated jovially. “I was just on my way back from making a few deliveries.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Thomas put in politely even as he was relieved at not having to walk the rest of the way in the rain.

“Nonsense!” Mr Tufton exclaimed. “Throw your bags in the back and hop in. I was going to stop in at the Inn for a pint anyway.”

Thomas went around to the back of the lorry and set his luggage in gingerly – _throw_ his expensive bags in indeed! - between a pair of wooden crates and hoped they’d not get too banged up back there. Pulling open the truck door, he got in.

“Thanks for the ride.”

Thomas had heard Mrs Patmore say the man could talk the hind leg off a mule but surely he could persevere for ten minutes.

_~*~*~*~_

Eight minutes later Thomas practically sprang out of the automobile, so relieved was he at being able to get out of there. Honestly, had the man no tact whatsoever? He was still grinding his teeth at the scarcely veiled references he’d made to Thomas’ ‘way of being’ and what a shame it was that he was leaving such a long trail of broken female hearts in his wake.

Christ, did people in Thirsk know about him, too?! A headache promptly flared its way into being. He was perhaps never so glad to be moving away than at that moment.

“Thank you so much again for the ride,” Thomas managed to get out levelly after he’d pulled his (thankfully undamaged) luggage out of the back.

“Sure thing,” Mr Tufton said with a strained smile. “You have yourself a good night, Mr Barrow.”

“You too, Mr Tufton,” he replied coolly.

Thomas forced himself to take a few deep breaths as the man drove back down the drive. Mr Tufton hadn’t even been particularly offensive, he told himself. Perhaps he was just being overly sensitive, something that his father had often accused him of as a boy...long before he’d even found out that Thomas was homosexual. His father and Carson had certainly said far worse things about him in their time.

He heard the voice of the butler who’d interviewed him that time.

_“_ _You’re a delicate fellow, aren’t you?”_

Thomas grit his teeth again and squeezed his eyes shut, letting out an angry breath as he stood stalk still in the midst of the rainstorm. He felt like punching something, someone. Instead he forced himself to start breathing deeply again. He couldn’t go back inside until he’d pulled himself together.

_~*~*~*~_

“Ah, good evening, Mr Barrow,” Mrs Hughes greeted steadily from down the hall as she looked up to see who had come through the servant’s entrance. “Just as I was wondering if you were going to make it back before we locked up for the night.”

  
“Good evening, Mrs. Hughes,” Thomas returned as he closed the door behind him. He set a suitcase down briefly to sweep his wet hair out of his eyes before taking it up again. It flopped back down into his face a few seconds later.

“You certainly seem to have taken in your share of the rain,” the housekeeper observed. “Wait there.”

He waited obediently until she returned with a pair of towels, handing him one to dry himself off and dropping another older towel to the floor in front of him. He stepped onto it, wiping off the mud on his shoes and then stood there to let it absorb as much of the rain as possible so he wouldn’t track it all over the downstairs.

“I see you found your new suitcases,” Mrs Hughes said as she appraised his luggage, then added, “Very handsome. How was York?”

Colin flashed through Thomas’ mind and he replied mildly as he scrubbed at his hair, “Not bad. Sun was shining all day. I brought my umbrella for nothing.” Having dried himself as best he could, he bent to wipe away the water that had beaded on his suitcases.

“Better to have something and not need it than need it and not have it, I say,” Mrs Hughes stated.

Thomas gave a small smile. “True enough.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked, taking the damp towel back from him as he finished with it. “Daisy kept your dinner aside for you.”

“Not really,” he answered a bit hesitatingly. “I ate a couple of hours ago.”

“Ah,” Mrs Hughes said carefully. “That’s too bad. Mrs Patmore made your favourites, with this being your last night here with us.”

Thomas blinked. “She did?”

“Yes, she did,” she affirmed quietly. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“Well...” he trailed off. “I suppose I could eat a bit.”

Mrs Hughes graced him with a small but pleased smile. “Good. Now hurry on upstairs and change out of those damp things, Mr Barrow, before you catch your death.”

Thomas gave his feet one last wipe on the towel before picking it up. Mrs Hughes took it from him and ushered him and his luggage towards the stairs.

_~*~*~*~_

Thomas ate every last bit of the dinner that Mrs Patmore and Daisy had made, even breaking off a piece of bread to sop up the last bit of sauce from the plate. So much for not being hungry.

“Looks like you got on well enough with that,” Mrs Patmore said with a satisfied smirk as Thomas brought his emptied plate back to the kitchen.

It felt vaguely odd to be dallying downstairs while Carson and Andy were still upstairs serving the last few courses of dinner to the family.

“I did,” he agreed, as Daisy took the plate from him and handed him a faintly steaming cup of tea. Still feeling a bit chilled from the rain, he took it gratefully. “Thank you. And thank you for dinner.”

“Well, it were the least we could do,” Mrs Patmore said modestly as she pulled a large bowl of cream towards her, checking it with a fork. “You call this whipped?” she demanded of Daisy. “Put some elbow grease behind it, Daisy.” She turned back Thomas who was sipping at his tea as the young woman took the bowl back. “I’m sure you won’t be missing our cooking though – not with the likes of the kind of cook a duke can afford to have, no doubt.”

“Nonsense, Mrs Patmore, I’m sure I’ll think of you both longingly at every mealtime and teatime,” he said with a cheeky little smile.

“Somehow I doubt it,” Daisy replied dryly as she whisked vigorously at the cream. “What kind of suitcases did you end up buying in York?”

“A three piece set, in leather,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I took them upstairs already though.” Daisy looked disappointed so he added, “I’ll show them to you in the morning before I leave, if you like.”

The young woman seemed to perk up at that. “All right.”

“They already sound right expensive and I haven’t even laid eyes on them yet,” Mrs Patmore grumbled.

Thomas gave a feeble smile at the thought of the eighteen pounds he’d spent on them. “You’re not wrong.” The cook harrumphed at him and he felt himself smirking.

Mrs Patmore caught the insolent quirking of his lips and shook her head at him. “Take your tea elsewhere, Mr Barrow, and stop distracting us. We’ve got to finish this desert yet.”

“Fine,” he concurred, then added with mock-indignation, “I can tell when I’m not wanted,” and strode out of the kitchen.

Thomas had just settled himself down in his rocking chair with his tea when Mrs Hughes tutted at him from behind.

“What’s this, Mr Barrow?”

He flushed slightly as she gestured to where he’d hung his damp suit over the back of the rocking chair earlier so that it would be near the small fireplace.

“Ah...” he floundered slightly and apologetically for the impropriety of leaving his clothes hanging about in a common room. “Sorry, Mrs Hughes. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to put them to dry. They won’t be dry enough to pack by morning if I leave them in my room.” It wasn’t as though he had a fireplace in his room and it was already too late in the evening to ask a maid to tend to them properly.

Mrs Hughes just looked at him and calmly proceeded to take his jacket, waistcoat and trousers down, folding them neatly in her hands.

“You should have said something, Mr Barrow,” she chastised lightly. “I’ll have one of the maids wash and dry them for you by morning.”

Thomas’ flush deepened and he glanced down, embarrassed. “Thank you, Mrs Hughes.” She just nodded and left, damp suit in hand.

When he glanced up Baxter was looking up at him with an amused twinkle in her eye where she sat mending a blouse at the table. Thomas found himself rolling his eyes in chagrin, feeling like he’d just been publicly chastened by his mother – a sight that Phyllis Baxter, sadly, was not unfamiliar with.

Bates, who was sitting on the other side of the table reading the newspaper, was, for once, blessedly silent on the matter. A fact for which Thomas was fervently grateful.

He hurriedly finished his tea and scooped up his slightly muddy and damp shoes from where he’d set them under his chair, waiting to be cleaned, and the paper bag containing the tea tin he’d brought down with him from the attic.

He’d changed into an older pair of scuffed up shoes from his footman days that he usually kept in reserve for when he had to do some kind of work outside. He’d polished his good indoor shoes to a high shine that morning and changed out of them before he left the house for York.

He worried that if his newer outside shoes hadn’t dried by morning that he’d either have to wear his indoor shoes on his journey to Crowborough and risk damaging them or have to wear his embarrassingly roughed up old work shoes. The thought of being seen wearing those battered old things by anyone outside of Downton’s staff – especially the Duke of Crowborough – made him grimace.

He’d sooner tolerate wearing damp shoes for hours than risk either of those outcomes.

Thomas dropped his cup and saucer off in the kitchen but was ignored as Mrs Patmore and Daisy rushed about to get the dessert course ready on time. He continued into the boot room and set himself down on a stool, pulling on an apron and sleeve protectors over his suit. He was scraping off mud and digging out bits of gravel from the groves in the sole of a shoe when Baxter entered, bearing a pair of Lady Grantham’s shoes.

He watched as she closed the door behind her and sat down quietly, setting the shoes down on the work table but not starting to work on them.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at all today, Mr Barrow,” she observed with a gentle smile. “How was your day? Daisy said you went to York to buy suitcases.”

Thomas stopped his scrapping, frowning thoughtfully. “It was...all right. I paid far more for my suitcases than I should have, no doubt, but I liked them far too much to not have them once I saw them.”

“Well, as long as you’re happy with them, that’s what really matters,” Baxter said encouragingly. “Is that all you did? Surely it didn’t take you until this evening to find luggage?”

He hesitated and then continued haltingly. “Well, I bought a few other things while I was there and...” he lowered his voice, “I...I met someone in a pub and went to his house for dinner before I caught the train back.”

Baxter’s eyes widened slightly. “...I see. And how did your... _dinner_ go?”

Thomas frowned, looking down and fiddling with a sleeve protector. “It was...well, it could have been worse, I suppose. It wasn’t bad. It was...all right. Certainly better than many experiences I’ve had in the last several years in some ways.”

“Well, that’s good at least,” she offered a bit uncertainly. “Does that mean you’d like to see him again if you had the chance?”

Thomas shrugged, “He was nice enough, I suppose, which was novel in and of itself. I could perhaps see being friends with him but...more than that...well, I needed to drink about five glasses of wine before I could even entertain the idea of actually...” He gave an awkward wave of the hand that Baxter seemed to understand anyway. “And then it was...ugh...difficult. It...it didn’t feel right.”

“Ah, that would be a no, then?” she summarized.

“Most emphatically a no,” he conceded and returned to picking gravel out of his shoe. “But, well, I've been thinking and I thought I might try to be someone else when I get to my new position.”

“We do change as life goes on,” Baxter asserted, then frowned, adding, “Or we could if our past would let us.”

Thomas sighed inwardly. Coyle again. He couldn’t just leave for Crowborough knowing she was still tormenting herself over that no good excuse for a man.

“You know what, Miss Baxter?” he began levelly. “I listen to Anna, you should listen to Mr Molesley. Forget about Coyle and your time in prison. You think the strong decision would be to see him but you're wrong. The strong decision is to take away his power over you. Leave him behind, Miss Baxter. Get on with your life. Let that be my parting gift to you.”

Her brows drew together contemplatively. “I wonder if you're right.”

“I am right,” he replied confidently.

“What about you?” Baxter asked.

He blinked, anxiety fluttering in his belly even as he tried to push it away. “What about me?”

Baxter’s brow furrowed worriedly. “Well, I should know better by now than to try and dissuade you from a course of action you’ve set your mind to...but are you certain about taking a position with His Grace?”

He released a mirthless laugh. “Certain? No. But I do know that I’ll probably regret it for the rest of my days if I let this opportunity pass me by just because...just because Philip will be there.”

She seemed to eye him a bit dubiously as she asked, “Is that what this is about? An employment opportunity?”

“Of course,” he retorted stoutly. “What else would it be about? I’m not going to Crowborough to see Philip or confront him, or even to take revenge against him, if that’s what you mean to imply. Philip lost his power over me a long time ago. He’s just like any other man...just another stepping stone my career.”

Her doubtful expression didn’t alter. If anything the furrow in her brow seemed to deepen and Thomas began to regret having been so honest with her the previous night.

“I’ll be able to write my own ticket, work in any great house in the country – even for the King himself – once I’ve successfully distinguished myself as having been the butler to a duke,” he explained. “I won’t have to stay there forever.”

Baxter’s brow seemed to relax a bit and Thomas took the opportunity to reach for the paper sack, setting it unceremoniously in front of her.

“And I lied, I have another parting gift for you,” he said jokingly. “Pardon the fancy wrapping paper.”

She stared at the bag in surprise. “What is it?”

He raised his eyebrows at her insistently. “Well, take it out and see, why don’t you?”

“All right,” she reached for the sack, smiling slightly. “You really didn’t need to get me anything, Mr Barrow.”

He glanced down, slightly flustered. “Trust me, it’s nothing to get excited about...” Baxter pulled the tin out of the bag. “I...well, I just saw it in a tea shop window and thought of you...” He shrugged self-consciously.

Her lips curved into a smile as she looked down at the tin, eyes brightening. “I’ve never seen this kind of Yorkshire tea before...and what a pretty tin!” She beamed up at him and Thomas felt embarrassingly warm. “This is perfect, Thomas, thank you! I shall enjoy this.”

She stood abruptly and came around to him, starting to lean down and for a moment he tensed, wondering if she intended to kiss him. But then her hand landed on his shoulder and gave it a warm and lingering squeeze, apparently thinking better of such an effusive expression of emotion.

A feeling he couldn’t quite put a name to filled him as it occurred to him that the last woman who had kissed him had been his mother shortly before she’d died. It suddenly struck him that twenty-four years of not having kissed or been kissed by a woman was rather sad, even for a man like himself.

Even as the thought passed his mind and he started to lift his hand to reach for Baxter’s on his shoulder, her hand slid away and he let his drop back to his lap. She sat down again and donned an apron and sleeve protectors before taking up one of Lady Grantham’s shoes.

Baxter smiled softly at him across the table but an edge of sadness seemed to reached her dark eyes. “You know you can write to me, Thomas – or call on the telephone even. Anytime you want. Just because you’re leaving Downton doesn’t mean I’ll stop caring about you. I’ll still be your friend wherever you are. You know that, don’t you?”

Thomas swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat and nodded.

He forced a joking smile. “Tell you what...I’ll keep you updated on the travails of being a duke’s butler if you’ll keep me apprised of just how long it’s going to take Molesley to find the courage to finally make an honest woman of you.”

_“Mr Barrow!”_ Baxter exclaimed, turning red.

Thomas full-out laughed as she attempted to sputter at him that she and Mr Molesley were just friends.

“Yes, yes,” he said, waving his hand humouringly at her protestations. “I still expect an invitation to your wedding, Miss Baxter. In fact, given that you don’t have any brothers, I may just have to take it upon myself to deliver the customary protectively threatening speech to Molesley in lieu of them.”

Baxter flushed and she was suddenly seemed reminiscent to him of her girlhood self, who’d spent so much time giggling with his sister once upon a time.

“Thomas, you will not!” she burst out, crimson-faced with mortification. He just snickered at her like the annoying little brother he’d once been...until she saw fit to respond like many a put-upon older sister.

“Ow,” Thomas muttered, more startled than hurt, as a spare button from Baxter’s pocket bounced off his forehead and fell to the floor. “Did you really just throw _a button_ at me?”

Embarrassed, she started to apologize just as Thomas decided that provoking the meek and mild Phyllis Baxter to throw something at him was the funniest thing that had happened to him in ages and threw back his head and laughed loudly and without restraint. Baxter tried to scowl at him without success until she, too, started to laugh.

Abruptly the door jerked open and Carson loomed in the doorway, staring at the pair of them like they’d lost their minds. It wasn’t an entirely unreasonable assumption given that it was the first time that Carson had ever heard Thomas laugh in earnest. He probably hadn’t even thought him capable of laughter; indeed, if asked, Thomas would have said the same of Charles Carson.

The butler’s voluminous eyebrows drew together in bewilderment. “What is going on in here?”

The sonorous voice was enough to wipe away all but a trace of their smiles. Thomas could only pray to be half as imposing a butler as Carson someday.

Thomas tried to suppress a smirk as he said as innocently as possible. “Nothing’s going on, Mr Carson. We’re just...polishing shoes. Nothing funny about that.”

Carson narrowed his eyes at them. “No...not unless you’ve taken to too freely inhaling the shoe polish, Mr Barrow.”

His brows drew together. “The thought had never even occurred to me, Mr Carson...until you mentioned just now.”

The older man seemed to glower at him. “Very well, carry on. And pick up that button before someone trips on it.”

“Yes, Mr Carson,” Baxter said quickly as the butler vacated the doorway, leaving the door wide open (with deliberation, no doubt).

She and Thomas exchanged looks, like a pair of children who’d been caught being naughty, before setting themselves more resolutely to the tasks before them.

_~*~*~*~_

Finally returning to his room for the night, Thomas quietly closed the door behind him and set his cleaned and polished shoes down by the door. He moved to switch on the small lamp on the bedside table in the dim light from the window, though by now the little attic room was so familiar to him that he could have probably found his way in pitch blackness. He had, in fact, done that very thing on many a moonless night.

He took in the narrow beds, the single worn bedside table between them and the slightly beat up old dresser across from the small closet – all the furniture in the room but for a chair. The same chair that Jimmy had sat on once upon a time and told Thomas that while he could never give him what he wanted, he could still be Thomas’ friend.

He would never sleep in this room again after this night.

Thomas took off his suit jacket and tie and set them on the back of the chair. Relieved to finally be able to do so, he quickly undid his cufflinks and unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and pulled them off, tossing them carelessly over the back of his chair with the rest. He toed off his old shoes and bent down to yank off his slightly sweaty socks, flexing his cooling toes in pleasure at their liberation from the prison of his leather shoes. Unbuckling his belt, he shucked his trousers and tossed them over the chair. Left in just his thin undershirt and white cotton pants in the humid night air from his open window he breathed a sigh of relief.

If Thomas lived in a world of his own devising, no one would be forced to be so overdressed for the sake of propriety in the summer months.

More comfortably attired for the task at hand, he lifted the largest of the suitcases onto the bed from where he’d left them beside the door earlier. He unlocked and unzipped it, removing the day’s purchases to the top of the dresser and leaving it open and waiting to be filled. Eyeing the contents of his wardrobe, he was extremely glad he’d paid to buy his luggage in the biggest size available. His black wool winter coat alone would take up a third of a suitcase; if only it hadn’t been summer he could’ve just it worn it on his journey. His other lighter grey coat was almost as bulky. He folded both coats as tightly as he could and set them in the suitcase. His two winter scarves, one brown and other grey, followed. His livery he pushed to one side, as he would be leaving it behind.

He glanced at the remaining six suits that he currently owned (not including the brown one Mrs Hughes had taken to be washed); three in black, two in grey and one in brown. They weren’t much as wardrobes went but at least they were still something to the single cheap suit he’d owned when he’d first arrived at Downton in 1910, his Sunday best. The suits he’d purchased in the years since were still cheap when compared to the likes of a nobleman’s wardrobe – a single suit in the Duke of Crowborough’s closet cost more than Thomas’ entire collection of clothing – but at least they had increased somewhat in quality as he had worked his way up. And at least he’d been blessed with the ability to make almost any suit look good, even the cheaper ones.

Hesitating slightly, Thomas reached to pull the jacket of his [favourite suit](http://www.mediafire.com/view/plf60fieuakhanr/Thomas_S2_ep_7.jpg) off of its hanger. It was an inky black with grey pinstripes – very sharp, very urban – that he’d bought with his wages after the war and if he did say so himself, he looked damn good it in. It had been a few years since he’d been able to wear it though. To his consternation, the far more sedentary nature of a valet’s job had gradually resulted in an unprecedented thickening of his middle that had prevented him from being able to wear the jacket without an unsightly bulging of the buttons. Jimmy’s arrival had provided a natural incentive to start watching his waistline again and eventually he’d been able to fit into it again, at least until the loneliness he’d experienced in the wake of his only friend’s dismissal had sent him seeking out the only remaining source of comfort he could find: food.

Thomas poked grimly at the softness of his belly as he pulled the jacket on over his undershirt. He knew that he’d lost a good bit of weight in the months since he’d undergone the therapy and he hoped that he might be able to wear it to Crowborough. He hadn’t really cared enough to want to wear it since Jimmy had left but if he was going to see that bastard Philip then he wanted to make sure he looked his best.

The shoulders of the jacket still fit him perfectly he was pleased to note and he was able to button it without much trouble, but he muttered a curse under his breath as he studied himself in the small propped up mirror on his dresser. There was still a visible straining of the buttons over his stomach and he was only wearing an undershirt. Cursing again, he unbuttoned it roughly and pulled it off with a growl of disgust. It was much improved from the last time he’d tried it on but he probably needed to lose another stone before it would fit as it should. So much for that.

There was always his [second favourite suit](http://www.mediafire.com/view/31076i703sfherb/Thomas.png) then, a dark grey with light grey pinstripes, that looked quite good on him. Almost as good as the black. He’d worn it less than a month ago so he knew that it fit well.

At least he knew what he would wear tomorrow, that was progress.

Leaving tomorrow’s suit on its hanger, Thomas proceeded to carefully fold the rest of them from the wardrobe and the one he’d left on the chair, lingering over the last black one thoughtfully. It was the first suit he’d bought for himself after coming to work at Downton, the same suit, in fact, that he’d worn to visit Philip during the London season several times. It was still in good condition considering he’d had it for nearly fifteen years but it was also looking worn from too many washes and the cut of it hadn’t been fashionable for a long time. The last time Thomas had worn it was during the war. He left it on the hanger; he’d ask Baxter to donate it to charity for him.

He struggled to force all four suits into his luggage; they were going to be wrinkled to hell anyway but at least as butler he could get someone else to do the ironing. First suitcase full, he zipped it up and set it to the side of the room. He moved the second suitcase to the bed and opened it up, pulling out the smaller suitcase that he’d put inside it earlier in the day.

He took one of his two housecoats off its hanger and folded it and then proceeded to empty his dresser. Leaving out only a pair of pyjamas to wear to bed after he’d bathed and what he needed for next day, he wrapped up his few breakable items in his shirts.

He transferred the rest of his clothing into his luggage with two exceptions: a pair of old woolly socks rolled into a ball and an ugly folded grey shirt. The socks he would keep in his valise to take with him on the train; experience had taught him that he should always carry whatever was most valuable in his carry-on when travelling rather than in risk their loss in the baggage car.

Unable to prevent himself from unrolling the balled socks to check that its contents were safe, he opened them and gave a gentle shake until a small black velvet box fell into his cupped palm. Opening it, he plucked out a pair of solid gold cufflinks of a simple yet elegant design similar to his everyday brass ones. He ran his thumb over the gleaming objects until he could see the initials _TB_ engraved on the backs.

They’d been an unexpected Christmas gift from Philip that, though he’d been secretly thrilled by them, he had never once worn except to try them on in the privacy of his room. He’d always been too afraid to be seen wearing them, for surely no footman should ever have been able to own gold _anything_.

Setting aside the cufflinks, he fingered the slightly rough material of the grey shirt gingerly, feeling the solidness beneath the cloth. The itself shirt was an army-issued leftover that Thomas had kept all these years because it was almost as warm as it was ugly. If his room at Crowborough got as cold as his room at Downton did in the winter then he’d need it. Assuming, of course, that he would still be at Crowborough for the winter.

Mouth gravely set, Thomas peeled back the ugliness of the shirt to reveal one of the most beautiful books he’d ever seen, and certainly the most beautiful book he owned. The thick gilded pages seemed to shimmer in the dim lamplight and he never could resist running his fingers over the supple red leather binding and tracing the elegant gold swirls of the ornate pattern that adorned the cover and the spine.

It was a massive tome, an anthology of poetry that Philip had sent him for his twenty-fifth birthday. Of all the books that Philip had kept at his flat in London that summer, it was the Duke’s old book of poetry that Thomas had found himself reading the most – something that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Philip given his choice of gift.

He hadn’t set eyes on it in weeks, not since the day he’d awoken back in his bed after his apparently failed attempt at suicide. The first time he’d woken up to find himself alone, having been left to sleep, his eyes had immediately sought out the book he’d left out on the dresser and sighed in relief when it appeared to have not been moved in the slightest. Though still weak and still able to feel the pain at his wrists through the fog of the pain medication that Dr Clarkson had given him, he’d pushed back the covers and moved a bit unsteadily to pick up the book, re-swaddle it in the ugly army shirt and push it to the back of the bottom drawer, out of sight again where it belonged.

It hadn’t been possible for Thomas, on the day he had decided was to be his last, to not take out the book one last time.

He hadn’t been able to bear not running his fingers over the beautiful cover, not opening the book and searching for something that could give some articulation to the searing ache in his chest. He would never have guessed when he’d first received the book that the gift would be with him longer, a more steadfast companion, than the one who had given it to him. Had never guessed that he would end up reading the same poem that he had read for the first time while with that very man on the last day of his life. He’d never have guessed that someday the words would speak to him so closely that they could have been his own...

_“_ _I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;_

_My friends forsake me like a memory lost:_

_I am the self-consumer of my woes—_

_They rise and vanish in oblivious host,_

_Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes_

_And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed_

_Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,_

_Into the living sea of waking dreams,_

_Where there is neither sense of life or joys,_

_But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;_

_Even the dearest that I loved the best_

_Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest...”_

“How cheery,” Thomas had joked to Philip, who’d had his chin resting on Thomas’ shoulder, with a chuckle the first time he’d read it. Fourteen years later he’d sat in front of the same poem with his mouth set in a bitter line and tears in his eyes. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Willing, at last, to leave no pain unconfronted (for there would be no other days), Thomas had swallowed hard and opened the cover to the very first page of the book.

The inscription had still been there – surprising, some irrational feeling of his had said, that it hadn’t somehow disappeared from existence for not having been looked upon in years – in Philip’s bold, elegant hand.

_For my Ganymede,_ _M_ _y_ _B_ _eautiful Thomas..._

He’d felt something splinter further in his already broken heart at the words and a sob had escaped him like a long held breath.

_The most beautiful of mortals,_ Philip had told him when he’d asked him who Ganymede was. _A man so beautiful that Zeus himself abducted him to become the cup-bearer of Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods._

And what was a footman if not an unglorified cup-bearer?

Another sob had escaped him until he could no longer hold them back.

Even someone who’d thought him more beautiful than any other had found him easy enough to leave behind – was it any wonder that the others had nothing but contempt for him? Was it any wonder that no one had any need or want for him?

He’d wished then that he’d thought to send the book back to Philip. Had known that he could no longer leave the house to do so without risking that he might lose his courage to do what he needed to do. He could’ve written a note asking whoever found the book to return it to the Duke of Crowborough...but that would’ve caused more trouble to Philip than he was sure he wanted.

Even after everything, he hadn’t wanted Philip to be destroyed as Thomas himself was then destroyed, didn’t want his final act towards his former lover to be one of vengeance. He’d supposed he just wanted Philip to know what had happened to him. Thomas wondered if he would have even cared had he somehow found out that Thomas was no longer of the world.

He would have liked to think that Philip might have at least felt some sadness, that maybe from time to time he remembered Thomas in some way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, as Thomas did with him.

Perhaps it was due to the war – that lifetime unto itself, entirely disassociated from the every day – that so much that preceded it took on a rosier quality when viewed through nostalgic lenses. The time when the world was a much more innocent place. When Thomas thought of the way he and Philip had once been together –apart from their infamous end – he felt an unbearable yearning to feel that way again, to love like that again.

What had caught Thomas the most about Philip was the way he’d looked at him – the way he’d looked at Thomas the very first time he’d set eyes on him in a crowded ballroom at Grantham House – like he just couldn’t help himself. Like he was as consumed by his attraction to Thomas as Thomas had been captured by the magnetic pull he’d felt to Philip.

For all their differences...in a way that first meeting of their eyes had been like looking in a mirror.

Doctor Clarkson had told Thomas when he’d nearly killed himself with that damnable treatment that he couldn’t change who he was...and the Thomas that had wanted Philip the first moment they’d locked eyes was who he was. No matter that giving into their true natures could eventually bring them to ruin. No matter how badly they could burn themselves dancing in each others flame. Better to set each other afire and burn for a day until there was nothing left but ash, than to live a life of unbearable constraint, unable to be their true selves.

Being with Philip had been a brightly burning moment in time...a moment of giving into himself completely and not regretting it, not fearing it, but revelling in it for the first time in his young life.

Yes, in the end Philip had betrayed him and broken his heart and it had taken Thomas many years to realize that even if given the chance, he wouldn’t take it back. He would never want to take back having known Philip, would never take back their one burning summer. The only one like it that Thomas had ever had, and likely would ever have.

He’d traced Philip’s writing sadly, almost reverently, as tears fell unabated. He’d smoothed over the slight creases in the page, as if by doing so he could take away the only flaws in the book’s loveliness, inflicted by himself.

When Philip had broken up with him, Thomas had returned to his room in an anguished rage and seized the book from its hiding place, turning to the first page to find the inscription was still there. Furious and crying all at once he’d clenched the page in his trembling hand, crumpling it, and started to tear it out when he’d forced himself to stop and breathe deeply in an attempt to calm himself.

_I shouldn’t d_ _amage_ _the book,_ he’d told himself, _I might need to sell it some day. And,_ a quieter part of himself had said, _I_ _t’s the only thing_ _of himself that Philip left me_ _. Six words to take me in and then break me._

He’d smoothed out the page as best he could, grimacing at the small tear, and closed the book. Frowning, he’d stared down at it.

Philip had come into his room and stolen back his letters but left the book undisturbed. Why? Certainly the book wouldn’t have fit as neatly in his pocket as the letters had but he could have just ripped out the front page. The drawer that the book had been in had been disturbed, so surely he’d found it? He’d come up to the attic with Lady Mary though, maybe he hadn’t had enough time to find the book or he hadn’t been able to take it out and rip out the page without her seeing. Or perhaps he just hadn’t thought it nearly as damning as the letters.

Philip’s name was nowhere on the page and the inscription, while highly suggestive, wasn’t irrefutable evidence that any “gross indecency” had actually occurred. Only the testimony of an expert handwriting analyst could possibly have made the inscription incriminating to Philip and then only if Thomas chose to implicate him – and of course, any lawyer worth his salt could cast plenty of reasonable doubt on it. And not to be discounted was the way that powerful men all too often had of getting out of facing the same justice ordinary men were held to, whether by clout or intimidation. Philip had connections in the highest of places – the Royal family among them – and such flimsy evidence could simply disappear like smoke if the right people wanted it to.

Whether it had been out of cockiness or some small measure of kindness on his part, Philip had left his gift to Thomas intact. Unable to stand the sight of it and fighting with the urge to hurl it at the wall, Thomas had roughly folded his old night shirt back around it and shoved it back in his drawer where he wouldn’t have to see it.

It had taken him over a year to take it out again, wanting to reread some of his favourite poems. It wasn’t the book’s fault that it had been gifted to him by an arsehole, he’d reasoned. He was simply careful to pretend that Philip’s words didn’t exist among the others, to pretend that his words hadn’t burned themselves into his heart the moment he’d seen them.

Its verses had been with him a long time, a constant companion in his peopled loneliness, its threads stitching together moments in his history – the everyday and the unforgettable.

Watching Lady Mary stride past him imperiously had evoked a whisper of, “mere painted beauty with her heart of stone, thinks the world worships while she flaunts along.”

In the wake of the sudden hollow in his life after Jimmy had left, he’d read,

“ _I dare not gaze upon her face_

_But left her memory in each place;_

_Where'er I saw a wild flower lie_

_I kissed and bade my love goodbye,”_

with stinging eyes.

He’d lain fully-clothed in the bath tub with the words,

“ _I’ll lay me by the forest green,_

_I’ll lay me by the pleasant grass,_

_My life shall pass away unseen;_

_I’ll be no more the man I was,”_

flitting through his mind, trying to soothe himself as he bled out into the water.

He’d never been able to shake his association of “all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes” with Philip when reading _She Walks in Beauty_. And _To The Duke of Dorset?_ Forget about it. It had taken far too many years for his memory of Philip’s soft, precise accent reciting poetry to him from that prodigious memory of his to fade.

He’d asked O’Brien to keep the book and some of his other things for him during the war, not wanting to take it with him and risk it getting damaged or stolen. He’d found a cheap, slim volume of Lord Byron’s poetry in the second hand shop and taken that with him to the front instead, keeping it in his inside pocket and reading it again and again until he could have recited each poem from memory as well as Philip once had. He hadn’t been surprised when he’d returned to be asked who had given him such an expensive book, who had written the inscription.

“No one worth talking about,” he’d said in a clipped tone.

Thomas had sat tracing Philip’s long avoided dedication on what he’d planned to be the last day of his life and decided that there was no point in keeping the book hidden any longer, it no longer mattered what anyone would think if they saw it. He had no intention of writing a suicide note. He had nothing left to say to anyone.

Instead Thomas would leave Philip’s gift in plain sight for the first time, a silent epitaph to anyone who cared to look: _At least someone once thought me beautiful even if, in the end, I was unwanted by even him._

_~*~*~*~_

Thomas returned a while later with damp hair hanging in his eyes and his housecoat thrown over his pyjamas for the rather moot sake of propriety – all of the three other males in the men’s quarters were either in their rooms, asleep, or still downstairs – on his way from the bathroom back to his room. He peeled off his robe and pyjama shirt the minute he’d closed the door and tossed them on his bed, relieved to have less layers between him and the night’s humidity. Revelling in the feeling of being bare-chested, he pulled out the smallest suitcase and one of the old valises and set them both open on the bed.

As much as he didn’t want to use his father’s valises ever again, the smallest suitcase was still too big to be used as a carry-on bag. He would have to look for a small valise of his own once he got to Crowborough so he could get rid of his father’s cases for good.

Into the valise, he set the volume of poetry and the balled pair of socks again containing his gold cufflinks. He scooped up the bundled piles of letters that he’d kept over the years to add to it and couldn’t help but think what a pitiful amount they were considering he’d been collecting them his entire life.

The biggest bundle was from his cousin in India who sent him a letter about every three months; he was the only member of his family who hadn’t treated him with revulsion upon learning of his true nature.The second biggest pile were the letters from his sister, Laura, and she only wrote to him once or twice a year at most.

Another bundle was miscellaneous letters and postcards from various people, mostly men. Among them was the letter Baxter had sent him not long before she was to be released from prison – asking him if the house he worked for any positions open – and the lone postcard that Jimmy had sent him near Christmastime, letting him know that he was working and living in London. Whether by accident or design, Jimmy had neglected to include a return address and he’d never written to Thomas again.

The smallest set of letters were so worn and fragile that he rarely let himself read them anymore, but for on his birthday. On the day he’d planned to end his life he’d been too afraid to read them. His mother had written him a letter every year for his birthday from the age of five until she’d died when he was fourteen.He never regretted more that he’d never traveled anywhere away from home as boy than he did at not having any more letters from her.

They were one of the things he’d gone back to steal from his father’s house one last time. After Phyllis Baxter had discovered him beaten and bloody near her house, he’d convinced her to go with him to his house so she could knock on the door while he hid nearby and made sure that his father was away at the shop like he was supposed to be. There was no way that he was going to risk crossing paths with him again, in case his father decided to finish the job he’d started beating him to a pulp.

Having been thrown out of the house without his key, Thomas had had to ignore the pain he was in to climb up the tree beside his bedroom window, praying all the while that his father hadn’t noticed that Thomas had left his window open a crack and locked it. Thankfully for him, the window had been just as he’d left it and he’d been able to get inside. Having no travelling bags of his own, he’d gone into his parents’ room. His body heavy with dread and throbbing with pain, he’d taken two of his father’s smallest suitcases, a pair of leather valises. Knowing that the cases wouldn’t carry very much, he’d struggled to decide what to take. He’d taken only a few things from his parents’ room: a small portrait of his mother, his mother’s worn copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ , his grandfather’s antique pewter pocket watch that would’ve been passed down to him anyway, and all of the money that he knew his father kept hidden in the back of his sock drawer.

He’d taken the last with particular dread yet grim necessity, worrying whether or not his father would report him to the police. He’d only been able to pray that his father’s concern over the family’s reputation would keep him from publicly airing Thomas’ shame, and by extension his own. In any case, Thomas had planned to be on a train out of Stockport to Manchester as soon as he’d finished packing. He’d been long gone by the time his father would’ve returned home from the shop in the evening.

He’d gone back to his room then and packed his mother’s letters, the few family photographs he had, and as many of his best clothes as he could make fit in the valises. He’d worn his oversized winter coat over his sweater even though it was only early autumn and not really cold yet and changed his worn everyday shoes for his handed-down too big winter boots, not wanting to leave home without them. He’d found his key and gone out the front door with his father’s stolen valises in tow, locking the door behind him out of habit. He’d given the key to Phyllis to give back to his father; it wasn’t as though he would ever use it again.

Thomas took _Romeo and Juliet_ down from the shelf he’d mounted on the wall, thumbing the softly worn edges before putting it in the valise next to Philip’s book and his letters. He didn’t know if he’d feel like reading it on the train but he wanted to know it was safe with him. He looked over the few dozen books he’d manged to pile on the shelf without breaking it. They weren’t much of a library compared to Lord Grantham’s collection but they were his.

His mother had had so few books to choose from that day he’d stood in his parents’ room. Books had been expensive and his father had been the old fashioned sort that didn’t approve of novels, especially as reading material for women. His mother had only owned the few books that she had come into her marriage with, with her husband being strongly opposed to wasting time and money on them, and had borrowed any books she could from friends instead.

_Romeo and Juliet_ had been her favourite since she was a girl and Thomas had sat at her bedside reading it to her as she’d lain dying of consumption, uncaring of his father’s warnings that he was risking catching the disease by spending so much time near her. It had been the one book of hers that he hadn’t been able to bear to leave behind, and over the years he’d read many of Shakespeare’s other plays but it had long remained his favourite.

Lord Grantham permitted the servants to borrow books from his library and Thomas had read a great many volumes from his collection in the time he’d been at Downton. He had a rather long mental list of books that he wanted to buy if he ever came across a decent second hand copy of them and he’d managed to find cheaper editions of some of them over the years. Just looking at his small library, he knew that he’d never be able to fit all of them in his luggage.

He also had a large number of cheaply made copies of old mysteries and penny dreadfuls he’d picked up at used book stores neatly piled in a corner on the floor next to some old magazine issues. There was no point in taking any of them with him, he didn’t really care to reread most of them. He could give them to Andy; the young man could use more interesting material to practice his reading with than whatever the schoolmaster was giving him. The hallboy would probably enjoy a lot of them as well.

He supposed he could leave behind the cheapest editions of books that he still wanted. On a butler’s salary he would be able to replace them with nicer editions.

That left him with the task of squeezing about a dozen or so volumes that he wanted to keep into his smallest suitcase. Not bad.

_~*~*~*~_

It was after midnight when Thomas crept his way downstairs, dressed in his pyjamas and housecoat once more. It was dark and deserted just as he’d hoped it would be, the only light the faint flickering flame of his candle.

Turning on the kitchen light, he went in and filled the kettle partway and set it on the stove and turned it on. He searched out the peppermint tea, a cup, sugar and the milk as he waited for the water to boil. Not wanting to be in the dark again after he finished in the kitchen, he went to flick on the lights in the servant’s hall and heard the water start to boil shortly after he came back into the kitchen.

Taking the kettle off the stove, he turned it off and set about steeping and preparing his tea, taking a quiet pleasure in the calm familiarity of the process. When it was ready, he returned everything to its’ place and turned the light off, taking his tea with him to sit in his rocking chair for perhaps the last time.

By this time tomorrow he’ll have been at Crowborough for hours already, preparing to go to sleep in a strange room and a strange bed. By that very evening he would be at Philip’s house. What a bizarre thought.

He’d thrown himself into the minutia of his day and into his preparations to leave and been mostly successful in distracting himself from the reality that he was about to face. But there was something about the quiet of the night, when the world slowed down and took its rest, that had always made it impossible for Thomas to push down anything that was worrying him.

“I don’t think it’s going to work, do you?” Philip’s softly hesitant voice came back to him...as though he’d been trying to let Thomas down easy before he’d set Philip off with the threat of blackmail. But Philip had known him so well that he’d preempted even that. That was the Duke, forever two steps ahead of him in their power play.

Thomas had loved the game of it all, the push and pull between them. He’d taken pleasure in every step of ground that Philip yielded to him, revelled even in the consent to pay court to him. He’d thrilled at the mock-feudal kiss.

But Thomas had only ever deceived himself.

Any illusion of equality between them was only because Philip had permitted it. He’d believed because he’d wanted to. The Duke had always held the ultimate power in their union.

Their relationship – however passionate, however electrifying – had simply flown in the face of common sense. Never mind the chasm in their social positions, it had been rather counterproductive for two broke fortune hunters to fall for each other. No duke as cunningly charming as Philip Somerset should have let himself be held back by the needy and demanding servant clinging to his neck, to his lips. And Philip hadn’t.

He really shouldn’t have been so surprised when the Duke had put an end things with such brutal finality. The logical side of him told him that he should have expected it all along.But it had always been in Thomas’ nature for his heart to hope even when his mind told him it was wiser not to.

It was perhaps both his greatest strength and greatest weakness.

His ability to keep hoping for better things had enabled him to withstand a world that had seen him as something perverse and revolting for most of his life. When his hope for himself had finally been broken, he’d almost not survived it.

Thomas just wasn’t sure exactly what it was that he was hoping for this time.

Philip had already made his feelings for Thomas all too clear, if his actions were anything to go by. He would be a fool to entrust his happiness to Philip ever again.

At this point, he’d just settle for some understanding. That and a safe roof over his head where he didn’t have to worry about his employer firing him or having him arrested for preferring men to women.

Thomas drank down the last of his tea. He knew it was late and that he really needed to go and try to sleep but...this was the last time that he would be alone in the servant’s hall like this. It wouldn’t be the same in the morning when the others were about. He stood and set his empty cup on the table and found himself wandering over to the piano in a semi-exhausted daze. Touching the wood of the closed fallboard, he pulled it up, exposing the keys beneath.

He knew in that moment why he’d felt compelled to come downstairs rather than go to bed, and it hadn’t been for the tea.

Thomas ran his fingertips slowly along the cool and worn ivory, saying goodbye to the piano keys that Jimmy’s fingers had touched. He took one last look around the servant’s hall, saying goodbye to the place where he had spent so many hours listening to Jimmy play the piano and playing cards.

Just as he was about to leave, his eyes landed on the old tucked away deck of cards that had been in the servant’s hall for time immemorial and found himself picking himself them up before he’d even consciously thought to do so. He was extremely tempted to just put them in his pocket and walk out in the morning, steal something from Downton for old time’s sake but then he sighed.

He couldn’t do that.

He needed – wanted – to become a better person and that meant not giving into the urge for petty larceny. He would ask Mrs. Hughes if she minded if he took them as a souvenir – she had a bit of a soft spot for him, he doubted she would say no even if she thought the request odd – and give her a few shillings to pay for a replacement.

He already knew that he would be putting the cards in his valise right next to Philip’s book and his mother’s copy of _Romeo and Juliet_.

Thomas knew that he’d never been very good at letting go of the things that cut him deeply, and what cut more deeply than love? Whether it was love unrequited or love betrayed, what did it matter? Those feelings were still something that belonged him that no one could touch or take away.

Money, material things, they came and went...but a memory could last forever.

He turned off the light, plunging Downton Abbey’s servant hall into darkness, before leaving.

_~*~*~*~_  

Poetry

~By John Clare:

_I Am_

_Child Harold_

_I Hid My Love_

_I’ll Dream About the Days to Come_

~By Lord Byron:

_She Walks in Beauty_

_To The Duke of Dorset_

 

Author's Note: I really wanted to have this chapter ready to post for today because today is my birthday. I'm happy to be finally posting this chapter because it marks the end of the first act, as it were, and next chapter we're on to Crowborough and our dastardly duke finally makes his appearance. : )


	7. Chapter Six

Author's Note: Hello, my lovely readers! ^_^ So what's this, an actual update, _finally?!_

I'm soooo sorry for the crazy long wait. What can I say? I've basically been drowning in the darkness and discontent of my winter for months and months and all I ever wanted to do was sleep. No matter how much sleep I got I was still exhausted all the time and just wanting to go back to bed and stay there...so yeah, that's why it took me so long to write the next chapter. I was literally sleeping most of the winter, like a hibernating bear. But here's a reasonably complete chapter finally. That's the good news. The bad news is that the beast of a chapter that I've been working on for eons has gone past the 50 page mark(!!) so I decided that I'd better post it as two chapters...so I'm afraid Philip won't show up until the next chapter. 

As for the next episode in this growing saga, hopefully it won't take me too long since most of it is already written (though I always leave the parts I find most difficult to write to the end because they take me longer). But then I'm also still struggling to slough off the fugue of winter (ugh, am I the only one whose depression finds new depths to sink to every winter?) and it's nearly the end of April and I STILL haven't done my taxes yet so yeah...I hope it won't be too long. lol

Oh, and I've also included some of my photo sources here and there throughout the chapter if anyone's interested them. Consider it a visual aid to help you through my clumsy descriptions. lol And I'm going to stop rambling now. Enjoy (hopefully)! : )

 

Chapter Six

 

“ _I step off the train_

_I’m walking down your street again_

_And past your door, but you don’t live there anymore_

_It’s years since you’ve been there_

_Now you’ve disappeared somewhere, like outer space_

_You’ve found some better place_

_And I miss you_

_Like the deserts miss the rain.”_

Everything but the Girl, _Missing_

~*~*~*~

 

_Wednesday, August 19, 1925_

Sun dappled trees sped past the wide window as the train pulled away from Downton Village. Thomas’ stomach fluttered as he settled himself more comfortably in the plush leather armchair and watched his home of long years fall farther and farther away.

He’d have sworn at that moment that the chair was the most comfortable he’d ever sat in in his life, so well did it cradle him. It was a foreign feeling to him though, to travel in such comfort. Having always travelled in third class, he’d been somewhat taken aback when the Duchess of Crowborough had purchased him a ticket for the first class open carriage as though it was the most normal thing in the world to her.

He suspected he’d spent a moment or two too long just taking in the [carriage](http://www.mediafire.com/view/pyyjfedmzlt2g7l/train%2C_first_class_carriage_1928.jpg) when he boarded; it looked more like a high class lounge than a train car. The entire carriage was carpeted from wall to wall and had gleaming dark wood paneling. Small wooden side tables sat between the large, widely spaced armchairs, coupled with handsome brass overhead lighting and windows framed with deep green satiny curtains. In stark contrast to third class – designed to cram in as many people as possible without violating safety regulations – it sat a mere eight people.

There had only been two older gentlemen in the carriage when he’d boarded. One of the gray-haired men had greeted Thomas with a polite, “Good morning,” before returning to his newspaper while the other had lounged – eyes closed and one leg crossed over the other – with no sign of noticing Thomas’ presence. If he hadn’t had a pipe firmly affixed in his mouth he might have thought the man asleep. They were well dressed enough to make Thomas both glad he’d worn one of his best suits and a bit self-conscious of the worn appearance of his father’s valise. They also both had a great deal more gray hair than Thomas, which he found somewhat reassuring after his perhaps overly critical assessment of himself earlier that morning.

_[“You have such lovely hands...”]_

Philip’s words, once so adoringly uttered and punctuated with soft kisses to the objects of his praise, had echoed in his mind as he’d pulled his flesh-coloured glove over his ruined hand soon after waking with a bitter twist of his mouth.

_Not anymore,_ he’d thought grimly. _Would it repulse you now, this hand of mine?_

His study of his face in the mirror as he’d dressed for his journey – no longer as youthfully smooth as it had once been and pale and dull as death – had made him frown deeply at his reflection. All he’d been able to see was the silver glinting at his temples, the deepening network of fine lines adorning his features, and the shadows beneath his eyes.

He’d tried to reason with himself that it was absurd to be measuring his current self against the twenty-four year old Thomas Barrow who’d caught the eye of the young Duke of Crowborough. If the heads that his thirty-eight year old self still managed to turn when he’d had the chance to leave Downton (unfortunately consisting of far too many women and far too few men) were any indication, then he was still by all rights a very handsome man – and he knew that perfectly well. Usually. He’d also reminded himself that he hadn’t been sleeping well for months and that he’d been getting no more than a few hours of sleep a night for the last several days in particular, so of course he was starting to look a bit haggard.

Scowling at his reflection, he’d only been able to think one thing: _“Please_ _let Philip be chubby and balding.”_

Since Thomas was fairly certain arriving at Crowborough wearing a paper sack over his head was out of the question – unprofessional at the very least, barking mad at worst –he didn’t think it was too much to ask. And it would likely help preempt other potential problems of the seduction variety.

Thomas’ eyelids drooped as if tiny leaden weights were attached to them as he slumped in the chair and he struggled to keep them open. He wished he could just take a nap but the Duchess had asked him to meet her in the dining car in fifteen minutes before they’d parted for their respective carriages so he didn’t dare. He still needed to give her the ginger tea and peppermint oil he’d forgotten about in the rush that morning so it was just as well she had.

They’d had to leave so early to catch the eight o’clock train that Thomas had been forced to ask Mrs Patmore to make his breakfast well before the servants usually ate so he’d have time to say goodbye to everyone and help Andy get all the luggage out to the motor car. It had turned out to be a morning for kisses when he received one on the cheek from Baxter and had had one demanded of him by Mrs Hughes, both to his pleased surprise.

Carson had informed him that he was quick, efficient, and not stupid and that there was no reason that he shouldn’t get on at his new place of employment, which was really the nicest thing the man had ever said to him. He’d even extended an olive branch to Bates in parting and had it accepted, though he honestly wondered just how long _that_ would have lasted had he not been leaving Downton for good. He’d ended up feeling too shy to give Mrs Hughes the box of chocolates he’d gotten for her in York and ended up leaving them on Carson’s desk when the room was empty with a small note that said simply, “For Mrs Hughes.”

_Thank you for everything,_ he’d thought but had hesitated to write where anyone might be able to read it. Mrs Hughes had insisted that he write to let them know how he was getting on so he could say something privately then he’d decided.

After his leave-taking with the staff, he had rushed up to the nursery to find the children still waking up and in their nightclothes. Lady Edith and the Duchess had already been there and he’d had to push down his self-consciousness to say goodbye to the children with them watching. Master George’s plaintive little, “Please don’t go,” had made his eyes sting with tears he’d struggled to blink away. He’d hugged Miss Sybbie with an aching lump in his throat, taking in Lady’s Sybil’s daughter for what might very well have been for the last time. He’d given Miss Marigold a hug as well and brought out the treats he’d bought for them in York, relieved that the gifts of chocolate and candies had helped cheer them up somewhat. And then, all too soon, it had been time to go.

Lady Edith had thanked him again for saving her life and wished him luck.

_Thanks, I’ll need it,_ was all he’d been able to think.

Finally, Thomas and Andy had successfully hauled all of his and the Duchess’ luggage out of the house. Lord and Lady Grantham came to see the Duchess off, accompanied by Bates and Baxter, but Baxter, it soon became apparent had come to see Thomas off.

“Be strong in your new resolution, and I know you'll be happier,” she’d quietly advised him off to the side of where the Duchess was thanking Lord and Lady Grantham for their hospitality.

A slightly bittersweet smile had found it’s way to his lips. “You had faith in me when I had none in myself...and I'm grateful.” And then Baxter was smiling and leaning up to peck him on the cheek.

“I’ll be expecting a letter from you, Mr Barrow,” she’d proclaimed. “Sooner rather than later I hope.”

“If you insist,” he’d joked. “It seems I’ll be doing a lot letter-writing in the future.”

Baxter’s smile had widened. “That’s a good thing, Mr Barrow. There are people in the world that care about you. Never forget that.”

“I’ll try,” he’d offered with a slightly brittle smile.

“That’s all we can do,” she’d murmured. “Keep on trying.”

In the end,Lady Edith had decided to drive her friend to the station herself and he and Andy and all the luggage had been piled into another car with the chauffeur. Upon arrival at the train depot, he and Andy had commenced wrestling the suitcases and trunk back out of the car and onto the platform while the ladies disappeared inside the station. The Duchess had emerged just as Thomas was wiping a few beads of perspiration from his brow and handed him his ticket. Staring down at it in surprise, all he’d been able to say was, “Thank you, Your Grace.” She’d informed him that, if he needed to speak with her, she could be found in the second first class women’s [compartment](http://www.mediafire.com/view/bad87bvel899lbn/train_carriage.jpg). “Yes, Your Grace,” he’d acknowledged and gone back to helping Andy with the luggage.

It was 8:02 am when the train came to a stop at the depot and half a dozen porters emerged from the baggage car in their uniforms and caps, columns of well shone nickle buttons glinting in the sunlight. Other than themselves, only a young man in a worn suit and cloth cap carrying a single scuffed up valise stood waiting to board.

And if Thomas had thought _he_ turned heads outside of the confines of Downton, then he’d been put to shame by the way the porters’ had drawn up short at the sight of the Duchess in her cranberry-coloured suit and matching cloche that brought out a lovely flush in her porcelain face and contrasted sharply with the blue-green of her eyes. Thomas had glanced skyward as the porters nearly fell over each other to be the first to reach the Duchess and wish her a good morning, inquire as to the destination of her baggage and make small talk about what nice weather they were having today. Honestly, men had no subtlety.

The Duchess had just smiled prettily as they flocked around her and chatted gaily with them until their luggage made its way all too gradually into the baggage car, though Thomas had thought he detected a growing tautness to the edges of her smile the longer they lingered.All the while the country boy had stood neglected, seemingly invisible, as he clutched his lone suitcase.

Finally, she’d produced a coin purse out of her beaded handbag and handed a small silver coin to the porter nearest her, then paused uncertainly at the rest of the men still clustered about, and proceeded to tip every last one of them. Thomas and Andy had exchanged glances.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the Duchess had said simply, then added with a tight smile. “Oh...by the way, I think that young man over there is also in need of assistance.”

The porters turned to the boy, who was suddenly visible again, and then after some wordless change between them the most junior of the porters was dispatched to collect his valise.

“Perhaps you should consider making a visit to Parliament the next time they’re in session,” Lady Edith had put in, shaking her head in amusement as soon as the porters reluctantly returned to the train and the boy made his way to the correct third class car. “I think they’d suddenly find themselves far more congenial.”

The Duchess had chuckled, “If only,” before striding over to Thomas and Andy. “Thank you for your help, Andrew,” she’d said, smiling amiably as she reopened her coin purse and plucked out a coin with thinly-gloved fingers.

“Oh,” Andy had replied, taking the proffered coin with a surprised grin. “Thank you very much, Your Grace.”

Thomas had just caught a glimpse of a half-crown before Andy’s fingers closed around it, enough to make him sorry that one didn’t tip the servants already in their employ. She’d simply inclined her head slightly to Andy in acknowledgement.

_Oh, well. I get to ride in first class for the first time. That’s worth more than a half-crown..._

“And thank you to you as well, Mr Barrow,” she continued, snapping the coin purse closed and dropping it back into her bag. “I’ll just let you say goodbye before the train leaves without us.” With that she walked back to Lady Edith, catching her by the elbow and towing her to the entrance to her carriage. Thomas turned back to Andy, who gave him a regretful smile.

“Thank you for all your help, Mr Barrow,” he’d begun. “I'm only sorry I – ”

“Oh...” Thomas had cut him off gently with a chagrined smile. He’d forgiven Andy for that business long ago, or more accurately had never been angry at him for it to begin with. It was the others he’d felt betrayed by, for turning Andy against him when all he’d wanted was a friend. “You're a hard worker, Andy, and a clever fellow. I wish you well.”

Andy’s eyes had met his in silent understanding of what he’d chosen to leave unsaid. He’d smiled again. “Thank you, again, Mr Barrow. I hope everything works out for you.”

“You, too,” Thomas had returned, and then smirked. “And good luck with Daisy.” The girl was a difficult one these days, Andy would need all the luck he could get.

Andy had just chuckled as Thomas walked away to join the Duchess. She squeezed Lady Edith’s hand and released it as he approached and said, “Take care, Edith. Do let me know when you return to London.”

“I will,” Lady Edith had replied with a smile. “Have a safe journey.” She glanced at Thomas. “Best of luck, Barrow, and goodbye.”

“Goodbye, M’Lady,” Thomas had said softly and turned to wait for the Duchess to board the train and then followed.

“Oh, Mr Barrow,” the Duchess had called just as she was about to part from him and.....

Thomas lurched as his head abruptly sunk down and started awake, looking around in alarm. He was still in the luxury armchair in first class.

_Christ, I fell asleep!_ _I don’t even remember closing my eyes._

Thomas cursed under his breath and fumbled for his pocket-watch with sleep-sluggish fingers and then cursed again when he saw the time. He was more than five minutes late! He suddenly jolted wide awake, he sprang up from the chair and hurried out of the carriage.

_~*~*~*~_

Thomas stepped aside to let an older woman pass out of the narrow doorway to the [dining car](http://www.mediafire.com/view/h3j61u2p34ctof2/train_dining_car.jpg) before going in. A dozen white-cloth-covered tables flanked the length of the car with chairs enough to seat four per table. It was nice enough – well-lit with patterned dark green carpet and matching curtains and dark wood paneling – even if it was no Ritz-Carlton.

He paused near an empty table by the door, searching out the Duchess’ cranberry coloured cloche and golden hair among the passengers the dozen or so people scattered about the car. He spotted her blonde hair quickly – she was already seated at a table by the window – but her head was bent over a leather-bound book in her hands so he went unnoticed. He started to approach the table, making it half-way, before he was beaten to her by a dark-haired man in brown suit who suddenly blocked his path. The man stood with his back to Thomas, bowler in hand, looming over the Duchess’ table. Several moments passed before she seemed to feel the man’s stare and look up at him questioningly.

“Good morning,” the man with the bowler greeted amiably in a middle-class North Yorkshire accent.

“Good morning,” the Duchess returned with a hint of wariness beneath her polite flash of a smile. Thomas wondered if she was regretting the railway making the dining car available to mixed-classes right about now.

“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?” he asked self-assuredly.

_Not again,_ Thomas groaned inwardly.

“Thank you, but no,” she said with a perfunctory upturn of her lips and returned her gaze to her book.

“Oh, come now, miss,” the man insisted with forced cheerfulness, waving the hat in his hand. “It’s just a drink.”

The Duchess’ delicate jawline tensed minutely as she slowly lifted her head again.

“It’s not “miss”, it’s missus,” she informed him matter-of-factly, raising her hand, her wedding ring glinting in the morning light filtering through the window. “Also, it’s half eight in the morning.”

“Tea then,” the man countered rapidly and Thomas frowned at his brazenness, wondering if he should intercede.

The Duchess stared in disbelief, perfect eyebrows drawing together.

“Perhaps I could buy _you_ a drink, sir, and you could leave with it,” she suggested, primly acerbic.

“And I could get it for you,” Thomas interjected, stepping up swiftly beside the man and levelling him with a cold stare.

He was only in his mid-twenties Thomas saw now, and possessed attractive enough features to perhaps justify his cockiness.

Thomas could remember what that had felt like, once.

The younger man shifted uneasily beneath his gaze, looking back at the Duchess, then to Thomas and back again. He cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking. “...My apologies, Madam. I thought you were alone.”

Thomas wondered with some amusement whether he thought Thomas was her husband.

“Well, I’m not,” the Duchess replied frostily, then relented slightly, “but I accept your apology. Enjoy the rest of your morning.” She then turned resolutely back to her book in clear dismissal.

The man glanced to Thomas, who was still eyeing him stonily, before muttering awkwardly, “Thank you. You too, Madam,” and hurrying away to sit at an empty table on the other end of the car.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Your Grace,” Thomas said, straightening his spine and rapidly composing himself into his service persona.

The Duchess looked up from her book with an easy smile. “Think nothing of it, Mr Barrow, your timing is impeccable.”

There it was again: _Mr_ Barrow. All morning he’d kept expecting her to call him “Barrow” now that he worked for her. Male servants weren’t considered worthy of the connotative respect that came with being addressed as Mister. He wondered when she would start, or _if_ she would start. Perhaps she was waiting until they got to Crowborough proper? Or was this a product of her American sensibilities? Perhaps it was a holdover of her upbringing. Whatever the case, he was going to enjoy the additional distinction while he could.

The Duchess placed the ribbon bookmark into her book and closed it, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”

Thomas willed his face not to register his surprise but his eyebrows twitched upwards slightly of their own accord.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he replied smoothly and obliged her as if peeresses invited him to sit with them every day. He perched gingerly on the chair, posture perfect, and sought for something to say. “I have ginger here if you’d like some tea.” He patted his breast pocket that held the packet of grated ginger Mrs Patmore had given him that morning, enough for several cups worth of tea.

“I would, thank you,” she answered and Thomas got up quickly and found the nearest waiter, ordering a single cup of tea and handing him the packet before returning to his seat.

“He said he’d bring it to the table,” he informed her, making a conscious effort not to shift uncomfortably his seat. He cast his gaze about uncertainly over the Duchess’ white silk gloves resting on the starched tablecloth next to her small handbag, cloche and the book. He studied the upside down print on the green gilt-patterned cover curiously: _North and South_ by Elizabeth Gaskell. He hadn’t read that one.

“Was there anything else you’d like to order, Your Grace?” he ventured finally, relieved to have found something else to say.

“Oh, no,” she declined with a little wave of her hand. “The breakfast provided by the Abbey’s cook was more than filling.”

Thomas was surprised to find himself smirking with a bit of wry fondness as he returned, “Yes, Mrs Patmore tends to cook to feed an army.”

The Duchess tilted her head, a lock of hair falling against her cheek, and studied him for a long moment before smiling sympathetically. “This must be a big change for you. You were with the Crawleys for a long time.”

His smirk died away at the pang that arose unwillingly within him. “Yes,” he agreed simply, no other words forthcoming.

“I imagine you’ll miss Downton for a good while, though I do hope you’ll start to feel at home at Crowborough soon enough,” the Duchess continued, her blue-green eyes kind as they looked into his.

“I hope so, too, Your Grace,” Thomas admitted with a shaky smile.

She glanced down briefly, thoughtfully, before musing, “It occurred to me, Mr Barrow, that I’ve spoken to nearly everyone about you but you yourself. I thought perhaps we could take advantage of this time before we get home and become preoccupied with other things to get to know each other a bit.” She smiled encouragingly. “Won’t you tell me about yourself?”

Thomas’ brows rose, taken aback, and anxiety fluttered in his gut. “There’s not much to tell, Your Grace,” he told her, smiling nervously. “What would you like to know?”

“Well...” she paused thoughtfully, tracing absently at a gold swirl on her book. “Where are you from? I don’t have the best ear for English dialects – there are so many of them! - but your accent isn’t a Yorkshire one, I think.”

Thomas felt himself begin to relax. “I’m originally from Manchester, Your Grace. I didn’t move to Yorkshire until fifteen years ago.”

“I see,” she said with interest. “Any family?”

A beat of silence. “...My father, my older sister and her children – two nephews and a niece. They still live in our hometown so I don’t see them often.”

_As if that’s the reason_ , Thomas thought darkly.

“No family of your own then?” the Duchess asked curiously. “No wife or fiancee?”

Thomas tensed slightly.

“No, Your Grace,” he answered mildly.

“No sweetheart even?” she persisted, surprise beginning to colour her voice.

Thomas offered a chagrined smile. “I’m afraid not.”

_“Why ever not?”_ she asked, brow furrowing in incredulity and concern. “Such a handsome man...”

_Please, tell me Philip’s wife isn’t flirting with me,_ Thomas prayed silently at the impropriety of her comment.

“...I should think you’d have your pick of women,” she continued. “What is the world coming to?”

Thomas fiddled with a cufflink, stomach starting to churn with that all too familiar fear, as he struggled to maintain his composure.

“Those in service traditionally don’t marry and fraternizing among staff is generally discouraged, Your Grace,” he reminded her evenly.

The Duchess frowned slightly but her tone was light, conversational. “Yes, that’s true, but things have been changing since the war ended. For the better I think, even if some peers would disagree. In any case, we no longer prohibit our staff from marrying if they so choose. Several of our staff are married and have families.” Thomas’ digested this information as the Duchess waved a flustered hand, adding a bit awkwardly. “...I suppose I just wanted to let you know that we would make accommodations for you if you ever choose to marry in the future.”

“That’s very generous, Your Grace,” Thomas praised carefully.

“Not particularly,” she dismissed with a shrug. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s a change that shouldn’t have required something as terrible as a war to be brought about in the first place.”

Thomas regarded her with some surprise. That was certainly a different tune from most of the peerage, who’d he’d been listening to bemoaning the shifting social order for years now. Why, just last month he’d been waiting on a party of middle-aged ladies mourning at length the Halcyon days of the £20-per-annum housemaid and servants who’d regarded dedication over personal ambition as the ultimate virtue. Thomas had just been thankful that his servant’s blank was so well honed that he’d shown little more reaction than a slight tightening of his mouth.

“Historically, great changes have never come about easily,” he offered diplomatically. “People have always had to fight to effect any change in the establishment.”

A shadow suddenly fell on the table between them and they looked up to find a waiter standing there with a wooden tray in his hands.

“Your tea, Ma’am,” the man said in an accent reminiscent of Andy’s as he set the tray down on the table beside them. A small pewter teapot gleamed dully on the tray next to a matching sugar bowl and creamer, a plain porcelain cup and saucer, a lone teaspoon, and the remainder of the ginger packet.

Thomas side-eyed him, the urge to correct his address on the tip of his tongue, but if the Duchess felt no need to correct him then it wasn’t his place. At least he was being professional, unlike the porters earlier.

“Thank you,” was all she said, taking the cup and saucer off the tray and placing it in front of her. She paused, glancing inquiringly at Thomas. “You didn’t order anything, Mr Barrow?”

_Of course I didn’t order anything._

Decades of protocol made it almost unthinkable to him.

One of the first things the Gibson family butler had impressed upon him when he first starting working as a hallboy was that a servant must _never ever_ eat or drink in the presence of The Family or their social betters. This had only been even more heavily enforced by Carson when he’d started at Downton. Another of those time-honoured rules was that he was never to sit down in front of his betters unless invited to do, an occasion he had never encountered before today (with the exception of the servant’s Christmas party).

But just because this _American_ Duchess had either no conception or no regard (or both) for proper English etiquette didn’t mean he would abandon his sense of propriety so easily. Not to mention the strangeness of it would make it difficult to fully enjoy anything he ordered. Better to wait until she’d gone if he wanted anything.

The waiter stilled expectantly, regarding Thomas. “Is there something I can get for you, sir?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he replied lightly.

The waiter nodded and said, “Please let me know if there’s anything else you need,” and left for another table.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” the Duchess asked, voice tinged with concern, her hands hovering uncertainly over her empty cup as though he’d somehow discomfited her.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas answered with a polite smile as he reached for the teapot and poured the steaming amber liquid into her cup. “I thought I’d try and get a little sleep before we get to London and caffeine would keep me up.”

“I see,” she murmured, dropping a lump of sugar into her tea with a pair of tiny tongs. “Perhaps they have chamomile? Many people find it calming before bed.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Your Grace” he demurred a bit awkwardly. “I didn’t sleep much last night and the chairs in first class are so comfortable I don’t think I’ll have trouble nodding off.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” the Duchess began apologetically. “And here I’ve been detaining you all this time.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, Your Grace” Thomas half-lied amiably.

“Please go and rest,” she insisted. “If I could sleep on trains believe me, I’d be going for a nap myself. Sadly, I’ve never been a morning person.”

“I could wait until you’re done, if you like, Your Grace” he offered, looking pointedly over to where the cocky young man from earlier was still sitting.

“Oh, no,” the Duchess protested, trying to disguise her embarrassment behind the rim of her cup as she sipped at it. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you any further, Mr Barrow. I’m sure I’ll be fine and I can always call for the steward or an attendant if need be.”

“If you’re sure...?” Thomas asked uncertainly.

“Of course I’m sure,” she insisted confidently and then waved a hand at him in a shooing motion. “Now go away and get some sleep already,” she ordered cheerfully.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he conceded with a faint smile and then rose and left the dining car behind.

He was soon resettled in his plush armchair and, after checking to make sure his valise was where he’d left it, he closed his eyes and tried to will away his nerves about his final destination.

_Whatever is going to happen is going to happen regardless of whether or not I waste all my time leading up to it worrying about it,_ Thomas told himself sternly. _Now stop thinking about Philip already and go to sleep. Philip doesn’t exist. It’s just you and this comfy, comfy chair._

_Philip doesn’t exist_ _and everything is going to be fine_ _,_ _Philip doesn’t exist_ _and everything is going to be fine_ _,_ he chanted to himself again and again as he was lulled by the motion of the train and his eyes finally grew heavy.

~*~*~*~

“King’s Cross Station!” a man’s voice announced loudly and Thomas jerked awake, startled. “London!”

Heart pounding with the rude awakening, he scrubbed a hand over his face, tugging at the skin beneath his heavy eyes to help them open faster. He forced himself to his feet with a groan and picked up his valise, glancing around himself to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. Seeing that he had everything, he shuffled behind the other first class passengers getting off.

Stepping off onto the [platform](http://www.mediafire.com/view/2nm6681tu7pflpy/King%27s_Cross_August_1925.jpg), he was immediately inundated with throngs of people milling about and pushing their way from one place to the next. As busy as York Railway Station had been, King’s Cross felt like a madhouse next to it. Or at least it did to Thomas, accustomed as he was to the far more sedate pace of the countryside. He took several moments to mentally brace himself against the crush of activity even as he stepped out of people’s way. He frowned, hoping he wouldn’t have trouble spotting the Duchess. It turned out he needn’t have bothered.

“Mr Barrow!” her familiar voice called from somewhere behind him. He whirled around to find her standing down by the baggage car and hurried to join her. The porters were already rolling the trolleys bearing the London baggage down the ramp.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a small smile. Spotting the Duchess’ distinctive luggage set on one of the trolleys he excused himself to point them out to the porter in charge of it. The uniformed man swiftly removed them from the cart with effortless strength, depositing them with practiced ease before the Duchess as she came over. She thanked the porter, looking over the bags to check that they were all there.

“There’s still a trunk,” she informed him once she saw all the suitcases were accounted for.

“I’m sure it’s coming, Ma’am,” the man answered lightly, turning to reply to another passenger’s request.

Thomas scanned the other trolleys as they emerged, looking for the trunk and his own baggage. Spotting them on the same cart, he went over and pointed them out. He waited for a porter to lift them out and asked for them to be brought over to the rest of Duchess’ luggage, having no desire to strain his back unnecessarily carrying the trunk. The porter called over a pair of younger men in uniform and instructed them to do as Thomas had asked. He waited until they’d moved the trunk and his four suitcases to join the Duchess’ luggage before returning to her side.

“Thank you,” he told the porters as, unsurprisingly by this time, the Duchess procured her coin purse and passed them a coin each.

“Thanks very much, Ma’am,” they said, pleased, and pocketed the coins before hurrying back to the senior porter.

Thomas glanced over their collected baggage – God, they had a lot of luggage for two people – as he thought. How long until their next train came and which platform would he have to get the bags to?

“I would have preferred St Pancras Station,” the Duchess admitted offhandedly as she looked around through the fog of the steam engines, “but then we would have just had to bring the bags over here to get home anyway since they’ve no trains that go to Crowborough. Saves time.”

[St Pancras Station](http://www.mediafire.com/view/hnds97pfhld9ywi/St_Pancras_Station_1925.jpg) was just across the street from [King’s Cross](http://www.mediafire.com/view/x9j607cpcfo6d8a/King%27s_Cross_1920.jpg) but with the amount of baggage they had to move he supposed that it did save them some time. And he couldn’t say he blamed her for her preference. It was certainly far more stately a place than King’s Cross, plain and crowded and kind of dirty as it was. Thanks to the hotel it was attached to, St Pancras was probably the closest a train station had ever come to being glamorous.

“True enough,” Thomas acknowledged, adding, “I’ll go get a trolley for the bags, Your Grace.”

“All right,” she agreed, then called out as he started away, “Wait – for the fee.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said as he accepted the outstretched coin. “I’ll be right back.”

He made his way to the thankfully not too long queue of the [cloakroom](http://www.mediafire.com/view/30w6elrel15ag00/King%E2%80%99s_Cross_station_cloakroom_1934.jpg) to rent a trolley. After about ten minutes he was pushing a large cart along back towards the Duchess. The slender lines of her body seemed to be drawn taut as she stood alone with the luggage, the crowd surging around her like a river around an unmoving rock. Thomas noted the many double-takes as they passed her, men and women alike, unable to prevent themselves from staring at her beauty. Her arms were tightly folded across her body as Thomas approached and he hoped no one had bothered her in the short time he’d been away.

Her face lit with relief as she saw him and he felt an unexpected stirring of sympathy. It wasn’t always easy to be exceptionally attractive, he knew. Especially for a woman.

Thomas offered her a reassuring smile as he held out the change he’d been given. She returned his smile, waving the change away wordlessly so he just put it in his pocket.

“I thought we could have a little break for lunch since we’re changing trains here anyway,” the Duchess told him as he heaved the trunk onto the trolley.

What did she mean, “we”? Did she intend to have him dine with her? He glanced at the station’s unremarkable tea room across the way; at least they didn’t have to go far for refreshments.

“And I was able to arrange a lunch meeting that’s long overdue,” she continued as he fit the biggest suitcases onto the trolley, wondering what she was talking about. “I’m the chair of a hospital benefit committee,” she explained quickly at his puzzled expression. “We’re in the midst of planning a benefit dinner for the Ormand Children’s Hospital by early October but we’re a bit behind schedule for one reason or another so I really must go.”

_Go?_ _ **Now?**_ He thought, impatience flooding him. _Where? For how long?_

“I hope you don’t mind, Mr Barrow,” the Duchess added with a hint of concern and he rapidly schooled his expression, in case his true feelings were leaking out across his face.

He did mind. Not that it mattered. A servant’s life was little more than a ship at sea buffeted by the winds of their employers whims.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” he replied pleasantly, pausing briefly to look at her. “Is there somewhere I can escort you?”

_Best to stay in her good books,_ he thought. _She could be the only thing that stands between me having a job and Philip tossing me out on my ear._

“The Ritz...but I don’t wish to be a bother,” she demurred, lifting up one of the large suitcases with surprising strength and passing it to him. “We can just meet here afterwards.”

“Thank you, and it’s no bother, Your Grace,” he insisted with an easy smile as he set the suitcase on the cart. “I’ll just get the baggage checked-in.”

“Good,” she replied, flashing a pleased smile. “I’ll get our tickets in the meantime.” She plucked another coin from her seemingly bottomless change purse for the check-in fee and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said as he accepted it. He watched as the Duchess made her way to the nearest [booking office](http://www.mediafire.com/view/b8j2km88w94l9cw/King%27s_Cross_interior.jpg) and took her place in the long queue before he resumed loading the rest of the luggage.

He paused to unlock the valise he’d been using as a carry-on, opening it to pull out his umbrella and then locking it again. No Englishman would ever trust London not to start pouring at any given moment without warning. He set both on top of the trolley and, muscles straining with the effort, proceeded to push the now much heavier cart back towards the cloakroom to wait in line once more.

Flipping open his pocket watch as he idled in the queue, he noted it was already 10:41 am. Just how long would the Duchess’ lunch meeting take? He just wanted to get to Crowborough already. He released a sigh, rubbing at his tired eyes and continued to wait.

It was another ten minutes or so before he reached the counter and was able to fill out the necessary paperwork, pay the fee, collect the claim ticket and turn over the trolley to one of the cloak room workers. He still finished before the Duchess, as her queue had been more than twice the length of his. He glanced around fruitlessly for somewhere to sit down (not wanting to go into one of the waiting rooms where she might not find him right away) and when it became apparent that there were none, he debated leaning on an empty place against a wall. Eyeing the dingy condition of the wall with distaste he quickly decided against it.

Finally he settled himself to wait near the booking office queue for the Duchess. He glanced over the small herd of people in the queue until he spotted her. Good, there were only three people left in front of her. She seemed entirely unaffected by the impatience that was grating on his nerves, standing there perfectly unconcerned as she continued reading the small book from earlier. He doubted Philip would’ve been so patient.

Thomas wouldn’t have put it past the Duke to saunter right past everyone in line like they weren’t even there, were he actually do to something as pedestrian as purchasing tickets for himself. In reality, he’d probably have sent his valet or a footman to do it for him while he lounged in the tea room.

He smirked briefly at the thought of how cross those people would have been by the Duke’s sense of entitlement as he got served before everyone else even as he feigned contrition for it.

_One down, two to go,_ he thought as he watched the progress of the queue.

Foot tapping restlessly on ground, he wished he’d thought to take a book out of one of his suitcases before he’d surrendered the lot to the cloakroom. He hadn’t bothered to choose one to read before leaving Downton because he’d known that he’d be too exhausted to do anything other than rest his eyes after the hellish time he’d tossing and turning in bed for hours trying to get some sleep. Also, he’d already read all of books he owned, most of them more than once, and hadn’t felt like rereading any of them.

What he wanted was something new to read. And where better than London to have a wider selection to choose from? There was a large bookstore not far from the Ritz, though it only sold new books. He had just gotten paid, in fact between his pay and his severance he had more money than he’d had at once since before he’d wasted all of his savings on that nearly lethal Choose-Your-Own-Path treatment. While he _had_ just spent a large chunk of change of his new luggage...after the year he’d had, surely he deserved a new book or two?

And if he got to Crowborough and Philip put him out on the street, well, he’d be returning them by tomorrow. His stomach churned unpleasantly at that cheerful thought and he forced his attention back to the queue. The last person in front of the Duchess was just leaving the counter and she was stepping forward.

_Finally..._

He straightened his trilby and his tie and brushed a few specks of dust from his suit while he waited. He peered down to check his shoes but they were just as shiny as they’d been when he’d polished them earlier. He sighed and shifted his umbrella to the opposite hand and then pulled out his pocket watch again. 10:56 am.

“That line was ridiculous,” came the Duchess’ approaching voice and Thomas quickly snapped his watch shut, looking up. “I think they’re understaffed this morning, there are usually more ticket agents.” She looked expectantly at him. “How are we on time, Mr Barrow?”

“It’s a few minutes to eleven,” he answered and pulled out the claim ticket and her change, offering them to her. “Shall I hold on to the claim ticket, Your Grace?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she said, tucking her train ticket into her book and then putting it in her handbag. “Please keep the change. And here’s your ticket.”

He took the ticket she held out and glanced down at it briefly. Another first-class ticket...for the two o’clock train to Crowborough. _Two o’clock?_ What was he supposed to do with himself for three hours?

_More like two and a half hours,_ he reminded himself. He’d have to make sure he got back to the station early to get the luggage from the cloakroom and bring it to the right platform in time to meet the Duchess.

“ _Thank you_ , Your Grace,” he replied, taking care to inject his voice with some enthusiasm lest she think him ungrateful. He carefully placed both tickets into his inside jacket pocket and dropped the change into his trouser pocket to join the rest from earlier. He could pay for a nice lunch at a pub with what was in there with a bit left over.

“You’re welcome, Mr Barrow,” she returned lightly, then gave a sunny smile. “Now, let’s go find a hansom, shall we?”

With that she was off, stride quick and determined, and Thomas snapped to attention, hurrying after her.

~*~*~*~

The [Ritz-Carlton](http://www.mediafire.com/view/r2p481kf2ckirq1/the_ritz_exterior.jpg) rose seven stories above Piccadilly as the sleek black hansom cab came to stop in front of it. Thomas emerged quickly from the front seat and opened his umbrella against the faint drizzle misting the air. He opened the door to the back seat in time to hear the Duchess tell the driver to, “Keep the change,” as she handed him his fare.

Thankfully, a few cabs had been sitting in wait of passengers near the entrance to King’s Cross and they’d been able to get one right away. With the large overhang sheltering them in front of the station, Thomas hadn’t even realized it was spitting rain until the hansom had made its first stop in traffic.

“Thank you,” the Duchess murmured as she stepped out of the car and under Thomas’ waiting umbrella. He shut the door and followed her holding it aloft until they passed through one of the many repeating stone archways running along the front of the hotel. A liveried doorman straightened to attention as they approached the main entrance.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the man greeted her with a slight inclination of his head before holding open the door. She must have been a regular guest, Thomas surmised, if they knew her on sight.

“Good morning,” she replied amiably, striding in. He paused in the doorway a bit uncertainly, closing the umbrella and giving it a few sharp shakes off to the side, before following after her and removing his hat.

He’d seen the front [lobby](http://www.mediafire.com/view/qs189vppz9joze0/the-ritz-london_ground_floor.jpg) of the Ritz several times over the years – mainly while escorting the Crawley ladies as footman – so he wasn’t quite as overwhelmed by the opulence of the place as he had been upon seeing it for the first time. Even so, he couldn’t deny the sight of the reception area with its grand proportions, glittering chandeliers and rich furnishings was still affecting.

He’d once overheard the Dowager Countess denounce the place as being “vulgar and ostentatious”. Thomas supposed he could also see why she might have been of that opinion. It very much exemplified French decadence in its architecture and decor rather than restrained English elegance. With its having only opened in 1906 and its Louis XVI reproductions of furniture, tapestries, fine rugs and marble fireplaces Thomas supposed it was all a very fine genuine imitation of a bygone era. But class snobbery aside, Thomas still thought it was beautiful.

“Ah, good morning, Your Grace, what a pleasure to have you with us again!” a middle-aged man proclaimed as he caught sight of the Duchess from behind the front desk. He quickly stepped around the desk to meet her, Thomas lagging a few unsure steps behind. His gleaming name tag showed him to be the hotel manager.

Thomas stood a bit stiffly, debating how soon he could extricate himself from her side and which of the pubs he knew of in the area he should have lunch at.

“Good morning, Mr Villiers,” the Duchess returned with an easy smile. “It’s pleasure to see you again as well.” She paused momentarily. “I’m afraid I’m running a bit late. Have my guests arrived?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he assured her. “They’re waiting for you in the Marie Antoinette Suite as we speak.”

The aforementioned suite, Thomas vaguely recalled, was a private dining room. Lady Grantham had attended a few dinners there over the years.

“Good,” she replied. “I’ll go straight there then.” She glanced briefly at Thomas. “This is Mr Barrow. Please look after him if he chooses to stay for lunch and add his bill to my table.”

Thomas looked up, stunned. Him, have lunch at the Ritz?

“Very good, Your Grace,” the manager confirmed without a beat of hesitation. He crooked a finger towards a silently listening employee and the younger man padded over obediently. “Please see that Mr Barrow is looked after while I show Her Grace to the Marie Antoinette Suite.”

“Yes, sir,” the man – a desk clerk? - acknowledged.

“I’ll see you later, Mr Barrow,” the Duchess told him and turned away, the manager at her side.

“...Ah, Your Grace...” Thomas called quietly.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes?”

“Would you like me to wait for you?” he inquired, mentally praying for her to say no.

“No need,” the Duchess returned airily, “Enjoy your lunch. I’ll meet you at the station.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he replied, then hesitated. “Shall I leave you my umbrella?” He didn’t exactly fancy walking around and getting his good suit damp but he’d have been remiss in his duty if he didn’t at least offer it since she wasn’t carrying one.

Her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise then she smiled warmly. “No thank you, Mr Barrow, I wouldn’t want you getting drenched on my account. I’m sure Mr Villiers has a spare umbrella that can be loaned to me if need be. Was there anything else?”

“No, Your Grace,” Thomas said quickly.

_Thank you very much for lunch,_ he thought but didn’t want want to say in front of men listening. He’d thank her later at the station.

“All right, I’ll see you later then,” the Duchess concluded and swept out, Mr Villiers in tow.

Thomas stood in dazed silence with the desk clerk, half-wondering if he was still in his narrow brass bed at Downton dreaming.

_What a strange day this_ _is_ _turning out to be. First-class seating on the train and now lunch at the Ritz?_ _Does she do this for all her butlers?_

“Sir?” The desk clerk’s voice came, interrupting his thoughts, and Thomas turned his head to look down at him. He was a short, plain-faced young man with well-groomed hair the colour of straw; he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. “Will you be staying with us for lunch?”

Thomas faltered a moment, pondering. A part of him was uncomfortable accepting the invitation – it felt like an unearned charity bestowed for who knew what reason – and yet, it could be a once in a lifetime chance. It wasn’t as though he could afford to dine at the Ritz on his own. He’d been to the hotel bar several times over the years – rare occasions when he’d had a bit of extra money to waste on an overpriced drink in the hopes of attracting a more refined breed of man than he would otherwise encounter in a common pub – but that was the extent of his personal experience.

“I suppose,” he answered dubiously.

“Very good, sir,” the clerk responded with carefully crafted politeness. Thomas wondered idly who the young man thought he was to the Duchess since she hadn’t identified him other than as “Mr Barrow”. He certainly could be under no illusion that Thomas was actually a gentleman. “Where would you like to dine? The [Palm Court](http://www.mediafire.com/view/8k337ltdg4dqd4c/the_ritz_palm_room_entrance.JPG) is most popular this time of day so I can’t be certain there will be a free table, but I can see what we can do. There is the main restaurant, of course, and the Grill Room or -”

“The restaurant is good, thank you,” he injected lightly. There was no way he would willing set foot in the [Palm Court](http://www.mediafire.com/view/33dcf36869sg8g5/the_ritz_tea_room_palm_court.jpg), frequented as it was by masses of socialites presiding over cream teas and tiny cakes and sandwiches. Even from the lobby, Thomas he could hear the faint music of the small orchestra that regularly played on the court.

“Good, it’s still early yet so I’m sure the restaurant will still have a few open tables,” the desk told him amiably. “Shall I check your hat and umbrella for you before we go, sir?”

“Yes, please,” Thomas replied, a hint of relief colouring his voice as he relinquished his belongings. He’d been worrying where he would keep his full-sized umbrella. Had he been lunching in a pub as he’d planned he wouldn’t have cared, but it would have been awkward in a formal dining room.

He waited just a few short minutes for the young man to return from the hotel cloak room with a small, highly polished square of wood engraved with a number.

“Here’s your claim number, sir,” the clerk informed him, then extended his arm to a huge arched [doorway](http://www.mediafire.com/view/gffz38v74kx4em9/The_Ritz_2.JPG) that led further into the hotel. “Shall we?”

Thomas put the wooden square in his pocket and followed his guide beyond the reception room and through a circular vestibule. He glanced up at the towering columns of pink marble as he passed through a few more lobbies and past a series of small shops until they reached the main restaurant. Flanking the entrance as they went in were two life-sized bronze figures holding aloft gilded luminaires of six lights each, mounted upon polished marble pedestals ornamented with yet more bronze.

“Pardon me a moment,” the clerk told Thomas before moving off to the side to speak in low tones to the middle-aged maître d'. Beside them, a waiter listened intently as he straightened a stack of leather-bound menus.

Unconcerned, Thomas contented himself with drinking in the [sight](http://www.mediafire.com/view/6c6pydexn5z72q8/The_Ritz_London_restaurant.jpg) of the soaring floor to ceiling windows and the expanse of the [painted ceiling](http://www.mediafire.com/view/n9l34nux94003je/The_Ritz_London_Restaurant_ceiling.JPG). He tilted his head to take in the pinkish clouds drifting over a blue sky, encircled by heavy bronze ornamentation. Leafy bronze garlands hung from the painted ceiling in repeating arcs and in between every second bough dangled a heavy bronze chandelier, for a total of eight circling the length of the dining room.

Nearly half the tables were already occupied and more had probably been reserved for lunch. Several heads turned to survey him as he entered but most turned away after a cursory glance, satisfied that he was neither wealthy nor famous and therefore not terribly interesting. The eyes of at least a few ladies in their best daytime finery lingered a bit longer than was strictly polite but that was neither here nor there to Thomas. What he did take note of was that other than a lone elderly man sitting by a window, he would be the only person in the restaurant to be dining alone.

_Oh, good,_ he thought sarcastically, trying to push away his self-consciousness even as it bubbled up. _What difference does it make? I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks._ He jerked his chin up stubbornly in line with this thought and looked expectantly at the desk clerk and the maître d'.

“Good day, sir,” the maître d' greeted him in an affectedly stuffy manner, his chin protruding in the air at least as high as Thomas’ own. “We will seat you in just a moment.”

The desk clerk stepped away from the front desk, pausing at glance at him. “I have to get back to my station now. Have a good day, sir.” And with that, having successfully delivered him to the restaurant, the young man retreated before he could even reply.

The waiter beside the maître d' – a head waiter perhaps, given that he looked to be around Thomas’ age – gave a slight gesture to another passing waiter. The younger waiter, a brown haired man in his mid-twenties, bustled over as quickly as a person could move while still projecting a sense of decorum.

“Yes, sir?” he asked the head waiter eagerly.

“You still have a few free tables in your section, yes?” the older man asked, though there was no question in his tone.

“Yes, sir,” the young waiter replied, glancing briefly at Thomas.

“Good,” the man said, handing him a menu and turning to Thomas. “Maurice will show you to your table, sir.”

Thomas thanked him and followed Maurice as the waiter weaved his way through the sea of round, white-clothed tables before drawing to a halt at one of them. It was in front one of the massive windows overlooking Green Park and Thomas felt his spirits raise in pleased relief.

“I have another table available nearer the centre of the room if you’d prefer it, sir,” the young man offered.

“No, thank you, this is perfect,” he replied in all sincerity.

Maurice just nodded, setting the menu on the table and then pulled out one of the four red, oval-backed Louis XVI-styled chairs that gave the best view of the window. “Most people prefer a table by the window, so they’re usually the first to go,” he informed Thomas with a small smile as Thomas lowered himself to the chair and let the waiter push it in behind him. “Will anyone be joining you?”

“No,” Thomas forced a smile. “Just me.”

The waiter offered him a polite smile, handing him the menu. “Your menu, sir. I will be back shortly to take your order.” The young man then stacked up the other place setting with quick, practiced efficiency, leaving behind only the water and wine glasses when he went.

Thomas stared a moment at the near empty table before him and glanced about surreptitiously. There was only one occupied table near him, fortunately; a few of the others had a _‘Reserved’_ sign sitting on them. The Dowager Countess would have been right at home with the three elderly ladies that were holding court at the table nearest him, decked out as they were in their turn of the century finery, expensively-made and yet two or three decades out of date. One of the sharp-eyed old crones caught Thomas’ scrutiny.

“Good day, sir,” the woman pronounced in a sharply stilted upper-class accent that probably would’ve given the impression of mild irritation even if she was experiencing no such thing.

Thomas gave a semi-sheepish smile, accompanied by a “Good day, Ma’am,” and quickly averted his gaze to the relative safety of his menu. He opened it, sensing the added attention of the old woman’s two companions on him now and pretended not to notice until they went back to their tea and sandwiches.

He began to quickly skim through the lunch menu.

_Beef Wellington...Traditional Roast Partridge...Braised Brill (Fennel and Fruits of the Sea_ , he read with some puzzlement. Since when did the sea bear fruit?)...a Three-Course Menu...should he order a three-course lunch? It wasn’t as though he was paying and yet...he didn’t really want to be stuck eating lunch for two hours. He continued to glance over the offerings in case something appealed to him anyway. _Ballotine of Goose Liver...Artichoke Veloutè...Brill...Braised Veal Cheek...Loin of Lamb...Artichoke Royale...Norfolk Crab...Langoustine...Veal_ _Sweetbread...T_ _errine of Goose Liver...Truffle Agnolotti...Roast Scallop...Native Lobster...Turbot...Dover Sole...Cutlet and Fillet of Lamb..._ _Tournedos of Beef...Fillet of Silka Deer...Roast Partridge...Roast Pigeon..._

Thomas abruptly shut the menu.

_“Pigeon?”_ He muttered under his breath. Honestly, was there nothing the French wouldn’t eat? And they certainly liked their goose liver. He was almost afraid to keep reading the menu. He hadn’t even gotten to the snails yet. Crikey, he was starting to think it would’ve been easier to just order plain English fare at a pub. At least he’d know what he was eating.

He closed his eyes a moment, releasing a breath.

_Calm down, it’s not that bad,_ he told himself. _You’ve heard of plenty of these dishes even if you’ve never eaten them._

Thomas reopened the menu, determined to find something to order. As he scrutinized the menu once more, a different waiter came by and quietly removed the remaining glassware from the extra place setting. By the time Maurice returned less than ten minutes later, he was ready for him.

“Have you decided, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” Thomas answered, closing the menu and passing it to him. “I’ll have coffee to start, the Beef Wellington and...a Caramelised Pear Soufflè.”

Beef Wellington was a regular feature of the Crawleys’ dinner menus and he’d always liked the smell of it when Mrs Patmore had made it, yet in all the years he’d worked there he’d never gotten to taste a single bite of any leftovers. He presumed the lack of leftovers meant it was good...either that or the kitchen staff had polished them off without offering any to the rest of them. Either way, he’d decided, it must have been good. And if price was any indication – Beef Wellington was the single most expensive item on the lunch menu that wasn’t alcohol – it definitely was. As for the soufflè, he was curious to know was it tasted like. The fact that it came with ice cream may also have been a deciding factor...and to hell with anyone who would deride a grown man for having a sweet tooth.

“Very good, sir,” the waiter intoned. “Would you like the Ritz’s blend of coffee or a specialty blend?”

“I’m sure the Ritz blend will do.” He’d seen the cost of the specialty coffee and it was twice as much as the Ritz coffee, and that was itself absurdly expensive. Just because the Duchess was being generous didn’t mean he should take complete advantage of her; it would look bad and he rather liked having an employer that actually had a good opinion of him.

Maurice nodded, tucking the menu under one arm. “The Beef Wellington comes with our house wine but we can substitute it for another kind if you’d like, sir?”

At an additional cost for the more expensive wine no doubt. “No, thank you.”

“As you may have read in our menu, there will be a forty minute wait for the preparation of your main course,” the waiter informed him. “Is there anything else you’d like the meanwhile?”

“Just the coffee,” Thomas answered dully, not looking forward to such a long wait by himself, then hesitated. “Do you have a paper I can read while I’m waiting? The flower arrangement isn’t proving as interesting a conversationalist as I’d hoped,” he added with a half-smile.

Maurice returned a reservedly friendly smile. “Of course, sir. We have the _The Times, The Telegraph, The_ _Manchester_ _Guardian, The New York Times_ and others as well. Do you have any preference?”

“ _The Times_ and _The Guardian_ please,” he answered, half-surprised that the Ritz carried the Manchester newspaper that he’d grown up reading considering it was only published in Manchester. Disconnected though he’d become to his birthplace, he still liked to know what was going on back home, to read the same paper that his family was reading. It hadn’t been too hard to find newspaper sellers that carried _The Guardian_ in North Yorkshire but it wasn’t quite as common in London.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter replied and bustled off once more.

Thomas sank back into his chair and pulled out his pack of cigarettes and his ever-reliable silver lighter – yet another gift from Philip that he refused to think closely on. He idly considered buying a new lighter as he withdrew a cigarette from its packet – there were plenty of shops around Piccadilly, it shouldn’t be hard to find somewhere that sold them; he wasn’t sure he wanted Philip to see that he still used the lighter after all these years. He frowned as he brought the cigarette to his mouth. But why should he get rid of the best lighter he’d ever owned just because an ex-lover had given it to him? He’d kept using it because it was both elegant and never once failed to light when struck, that was all.

He halted suddenly, a lit flame barely an inch from the tip of his cigarette. The old woman who’d spoken to him earlier was looking straight at him, mouth puckered into a thin line. Vaguely embarrassed at his forgotten manners, he yanked the unlit fag out of his mouth.

“Would you ladies mind if I smoke?” he inquired politely, summoning up as congenial a smile as he could manage, dreading that the old crones would deprive him of being able to smoke while he was waiting.

“Not at all,” she declared coolly, withered mouth quirking upwards as she glanced at her companions, and raised a cigarette of her own – held in a beautifully carved ivory holder – to her mouth. Moments later, another pair of cigarettes appeared the hands of the other two women.

_Oh._

Thomas stared, taken aback, as the old ladies brandished a trio of dinner length cigarette holders – of ivory, silver and jade – and lit them with practiced ease.

_Well. All right then._

“Much obliged,” Thomas said, smirking to himself as he brought his fag back to his mouth and lit it. He closed his eyes, inhaling that first indulgently satisfying drag and releasing it in a thin stream of smoke, as he settled in to wait for his lunch to be served.

~*~*~*~

Two newspapers, two cigarettes, four cups of coffee, and nearly half of his Beef Wellington later,Thomas looked up in surprise as the maître d' approached his table. He tensed, knife and fork poised motionlessly over his food, and forced himself to swallow prematurely.

“How are you enjoying your meal, sir?” the older man began.

“It’s very good, thank you,” he replied carefully, setting his silverware down and wondering if this was the only reason for his visit.

“Excellent,” the maître d' proclaimed and then produced an envelope from behind his back and set it neatly on the table next to his bread plate. “Her Grace sent this for you. Please do let us know if there’s anything else you’d like and enjoy the rest of your meal.”

With that, the man was gone, returning to his position at the front entrance.

Thomas eyed the envelope curiously, picking it up.The distinct small, hard shape of coins made themselves known as he felt it. She’d sent him money. What for? Did she want him to run an errand, go and buy something for her? Vaguely irritated, as he’d thought he’d have a bit of free time while in London, he sliced open the envelope with his unused butter knife and pulled out a single sheet of thick hotel stationary.

_“For a hansom to take you back to the station. P.S. I hope you’re enjoying your lunch,”_ was all it said in the Duchess’ delicate handwriting.

He gave the four pounds in the bottom of the envelope a diffident glance; it was far too much for the hansom fare, but he supposed she would just tell him to keep the change if he tried to give the difference back to her. Or perhaps she was just running short of smaller change the way she kept dispensing it like hard candies to anyone who did her the smallest service. He folded the envelope in half and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket before resuming his meal. At least he could leave the waiter a good tip with the difference. He wondered then if that had been her intention in sending too much money all along.

He was starting to feel like a kept man...but then again, what was a male servant other than a kept man? A man incapable of earning an independent living was what. And if he felt this way after a single morning with Her Grace, what must it feel like to be Philip after twelve years of such keeping?

Still, he was grateful. The cost of taking a hansom was such that he rarely, if ever, would pay to take one himself. He’d been planning to either make the long walk back to King’s Cross or subject himself to the crush of a motor-bus. Now he didn’t have to worry about either and it gave him a little more free time.

At least the Duchess wasn’t stingy, he had to give her that. Most aristocrats he knew of personally knew of were almost Scrooge-like in their tightfistedness. Or genuinely Scrooge-like, when he recalled all of the winter nights he’d spent huddled under too thin blankets in his frigid attic room at Downton, struggling to fall asleep because he was too damn cold. He could only pray that Her Grace’s generosity had extended itself to the bedding of the servant’s quarters at Crowborough.

After a few more minutes, he felt the beginning of his belly straining against the waist of his trousers and forced himself to stop eating with some reluctance. He’d just barely managed to consume a third of the confit shallot and vegetables and half of the loaf of Beef Wellington, but despite how good it was he knew he’d better leave some room for the soufflè he’d ordered.

He gestured to Maurice when next he saw him walk by and let him take away the rest of the food to be boxed up. He told him he was ready for dessert.

~*~*~*~

_Christ, I really shouldn’t have eaten so much!_ Thomas berated himself a short while later as he made his way a bit sluggishly up Piccadilly.

He felt like someone had inflated a too large balloon in his stomach and only wished he could rid himself of the feeling as easily as a balloon could be popped. His mouth was still held a bitterly sweet combination of the last swallow of the single glass of red wine he’d permitted himself and the delectably creamy ice cream that he’d only just refrained from scraping the remnants of off the sides of his bowl. Red wine and ice cream – a union he’d be sure to avoid in the future.

What he needed was a good walk, at least until he felt less like an overstuffed turkey.

The caramelised soufflè had been so good that he’d eaten every last bit of it, the danger of his trouser button popping off seeming well worth it in the moment. He’d also left Maurice the biggest tip he’d ever given a waiter in his life, in proportion to the size of the bill that had been sent to the Duchess, of course. Afterwards, he’d quickly availed himself of the hotel facilities – because God knew he had no desire to brave the toilets at King’s Cross if he could avoid it – and then collected his belongs from the cloakroom before leaving.

A high quality paper bag emblazoned with the Ritz’s lion and crown emblem hung from its handles on his arm. His umbrella was in his hand, closed for now, as it had stopped raining for the time being. It was humid out, the threat of a downpour still lingering in the air, and Thomas wondered how long his food could withstand the summer heat before it started to go off. It would be at least a few more hours before he arrived at Crowborough and could, hopefully, get it into a refrigerator. The menu had said that the Beef Wellington was made to serve at least two people so he didn’t feel too bad about having not been able to finish it, yet his upbringing made it unthinkable for him to let so much food go to waste. He’d witnessed gross amounts of wastefulness by the wealthy in his years of service and refused to do the same simply because it hadn’t been his money that had paid for it. At least the waiter hadn’t thought it odd that he’d wanted the leftovers.

He felt vaguely worried about bringing it to Crowborough with him though. What if the servants ended up disliking him right from the outset out of envy or some suspicion of impropriety? Servants could be very petty, nosy creatures – he of all people ought to know. It wasn’t as though the Duchess had treated him because it was his birthday or something – not that any employer of his had ever done such a thing; none of them had ever even shown any awareness of that particular milestone.

_Christ!_ He grumbled at himself as he stalked faster down the pavement. _Why am I worrying about what people I’ve never even met will think about_ anything _I do,_ _much less where I’ve had my lunch_ _? I’ll be the bloody head of household. What they think of me hardly matters so long as they respect my authority._ _Speaking of which...being late won’t help anyone respect me._ He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. _12:32 pm. I only have about an hour left before I need to get to the station._

It had been a year since he’d last been in the capital and he ought to make use of any time he had, however short.

The Crawleys hadn’t come to London this summer, which was no surprise to Thomas given the family’s increased fiscal concerns. Attending the season was no cheap affair, and with the country still deeply in debt since the war’s end the taxes on the wealthy had been quadrupled. The Crawleys and their like had been tightening their belt more and more in the years since.

Thomas wondered fleetingly how Philip’s family, the Somersets, were faring. Very well, he’d say, if the Duchess’ Parisian wardrobe was anything to go by. It seemed Philip’s mother had been right to insist that he hold out for a proper heiress; no mere dowry would have done for long.

Refocusing, Thomas studied the buildings briefly as he passed, noting a small cigar and cigarette shop.

_Well, they would certainly have some lighters for me to choose from,_ he debated, _but to hell with Philip! I like the one I already have and I’m keeping it!_

He kept on going, passing a few more streets until he came to the familiar [Hatchards](http://www.mediafire.com/view/l4lxu48ac7dd3f6/Hatchards_1.jpg) storefront four or five blocks from the Ritz. He paused to peer through the curved bay windows at the books on display. The double doors were propped open to the warm summer air and beckoned him inside. Entering slowly, he inhaled the faint scent of thousands upon thousands of books and felt something taut inside him begin to unwind.

Well, he had wanted to get a new book to read on the train. And there was no better place to effortlessly while away time than a bookstore.

~*~*~*~

After twenty minutes of wandering about in gratifying aimlessness, picking up books at random and setting them back down gently, Thomas found himself juggling several books under his arm. Since he wasn’t about to waste money on so many new and fully priced books, he knew he’d have to force himself to choose at least one or two to put back. But another minute of browsing never hurt anyone...

As he was walking past a table, a title caught his eye and he found himself picking it up almost against his will. _Letters to Philip._ Then he read the subtitle – _On How to Treat a Woman_ – and scoffed, putting it back down.

After another few minutes, he grudgingly decided that he’d better stop looking around before he found more books that he wanted to buy.

_All right, decision time,_ he thought as he brought out his little stack of books and set them on the table in front of him.

_What the Butler Winked At: Being the Life and Adventures of Eric Horne, Butler_ was the easiest to relinquish, as he’d only picked it up out of curiosity. Though it had kindled the thought that perhaps he should start keeping his own secret memoir as a butler to publish later on to bolster his retirement income. Of course, if Thomas used his position to exploit the privacy of his family, Philip would probably kill him. Or more accurately, he’d sue the subpar trousers off of him just for spite _and then_ kill him.

Oh well, it was still an interesting proposition. Maybe he could just change all the names and publish under a pseudonym? He mentally filed that thought for later as he considered the other three books he’d picked up.

He’d found himself intrigued by the few poems of T.S. Eliot’s he’d read in Lord Grantham’s old literary journals so he definitely wanted _The Wasteland and Others Poems_. P. G. Wodehouse’s utterly farcical short stories in _The Strand_ had been able to evoke a smile even on some of his worst days and heaven knew he was in need of more levity in his life of late so _The Inimitable Jeeves_ was a must.

Deciding he deserved at least one novel, he studied the remaining two books. He’d mainly picked up Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s _The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire_ because he liked the man’s Sherlock Holmes stories. He wasn’t sure he was in the mood for a vampire story right now though, even it struck him as amusingly appropriate given that he was moving to Sussex for the first time. He looked to the other book and added it to his small pile. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s _The Great Gatsby_ it was.

Purchases decided on, he strode briskly to the front counter. At least he still had a little time left to go for a walk, though where he felt like going he wasn’t quite sure yet.

~*~*~*~

Thomas soon found himself idling in front of the Ritz, debating where to go as he sidestepped passersby on the pavement. A man in an expensive suit gave him a dirty look as he went around him to the entrance, pausing to say something Thomas couldn’t hear to the doorman as the man opened the door for him. The doorman made an equally inaudible reply as he let the man go past him into the hotel and experience made him stiffen in anticipation. The doorman glanced at him but just nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement before returning to attentive blankness. Thomas was fairly certain the only reason the doorman wasn’t coming over to shoo him away for loitering under the guise of a polite inquiry was because he knew Thomas had been there with the Duchess earlier.

In any case he was leaving, he decided hurriedly. With a courteous smile flashed at the doorman, he was off, drawn to the open landscape of Green Park across the street.

The sun peeked out from behind the ashen clouds as he stepped onto one of the wide footpaths. Towering trees framed the pathway, their overreaching branches meeting to form a green leafy canopy over the visitors. A sea of yellow of daffodils still tenaciously holding onto life from the Spring swayed on the open grasslands in the distance, inundated here and there by white narcissus with nature’s random abandon.

He spotted a few picnickers as he walked past, a pair of young women enjoying the day and a couple with two small children running around the perimeter of their spread out blanket. On a far out open field of grass, he saw a group of young men playing a game of cricket and regretted that he had so little time left to spend here. He would have liked to stop and watch their game for a bit. Oh well.

Thomas had always liked the casual aura of Green Park. It was the least stately of the neighbouring Royal Parks, with no buildings, no monuments and no formal flowers beds regimenting the place. He supposed he liked it because it was as close as one could come to the tranquil air of the country in the maelstrom that was London.

“Sir, can you spare a coin?” a voice called out and Thomas slowed, his head turning towards it before he could help himself. A knobby-kneed old man pushed himself to his feet from where he’d been sitting at the base of a tree at Thomas’ regard.

Thomas hesitated. The man’s wrinkled face bristled with at least a week’s growth and his suit and cloth cap were dingy-looking and slightly tattered, spotted with the occasional small hole. A vagrant for sure. If the bobbies saw him panhandling they’d herd him right out of the park. Usually Thomas just said, “Sorry, no,” to such an inquiry; if he started giving a coin to every beggar in London he’d be broke in no time. But the old man’s tone was polite, a middle-class Londoner’s accent despite his appearance and Thomas wondered briefly what had happened to him. He was also skinny as a rail, making Thomas wince inwardly in sympathy.

“Spare a coin, sir?” the man repeated hopefully, coming closer to him and quickly making it clear that he was homeless in odour as well as appearance. Surreptitiously holding his breath, Thomas remembered the Duchess’ change still jingling in his trouser pocket and pulled it out, dropping the coins into the man’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, sir!” the old man exclaimed, closing his hand around the money and pushing it into his pocket. “God bless you, sir!”

Faintly embarrassed, Thomas just murmured, “You’re welcome,” and started away. Then the slight weight of the take-out bag dangling on his arm caught his attention and hesitating a moment or two, he turned back.

“I, uh, have some left over food from my lunch if you’d like it,” he offered awkwardly, unsure if the offer might be offensive.

The man’s bushy gray brows drew together in surprise that coloured his voice as he replied haltingly, “I...I would be much obliged, young man.”

Relieved, Thomas stepped forward to extend the bag to him. “I hope you like Beef Wellington.”

“I do,” the man’s voice was suddenly thick and subdued, as if still stunned. “It’s...been a number of years since I last had any.”

“I just had it for the first time today,” Thomas admitted as the man took the bag and studied the Ritz’s name on the side of it. “Sorry, there’s no cutlery.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage,” the old man said with a chuckle, reaching into his jacket to withdraw a battered metal spoon.

“Oh, good, you have something,” he blurted out, relieved that he wasn’t leaving this man to eat with his hands in the middle of Green Park.

“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” the man praised, tipping his ragged hat at Thomas. “God bless you.”

Thomas was fairly certain the ship had long sailed on the hellfire state of his afterlife but it was a nice sentiment nonetheless, especially given that a long enough acquaintance with him usually ended with him cursed by all and sundry.

“Thanks, you too,” Thomas returned clumsily. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir, truly,” the man replied gratefully, settling himself down against the tree again with the food in his lap. “Good luck to you. I hope you have a good day.”

_So do I,_ Thomas thought, _If I have a bad one I could be nearly as homeless as you by the end of it._

“Good day,” he added quickly before turning on his heel and resuming a brisk pace down the footpath.

At least the food was one less thing he had to carry, he reasoned even as a pleased feeling bubbled up within him. And he’d done one good deed for the day, which he had to admit felt surprisingly good. If not quite as good as a bad deed successfully perpetrated against someone he loathed...but, well, it was something.

And as he was going for a walk anyway – _here, now, today_ – he suddenly felt he knew exactly where he ought to go. As the path he wanted forked off the main one, his feet turned decisively onto it in the direction of Grosvenor Place.

Perhaps some part of him had meant to go all along, he mused. God knew there were enough nearby parks to choose from but he’d chosen this one. The park quickly receded behind him as his footfalls went from lazily wandering to briskly determined and within a few minutes he’d stepped out from the cover of the trees and into the weak sunlight. He strode down Grosvenor Place past the vast gardens of Buckingham Palace with the certainty of a well traversed route.

Soon enough the main road gave way to the familiar streets of Belgravia with its pristine white buildings. He’d only served as a footman for three London seasons, escorting the ladies of the families calling on friends and attending parties and hand-delivering invitations, but he’d come to know the district almost as well as Downton Village.

Philip’s London house, Crowborough Manor, was only a few streets away, an augustly towering mansion on the corner of Belgrave Square. Thomas had only set foot there once, bearing a last-minute invitation from Lady Mary who’d been all too confident in her ability to catch a duke. Too bad for her that _Thomas_ had been the one to catch himself the Duke at her party instead.

Grantham House was several streets away, overlooking Eaton Square Gardens, and Thomas supposed that he might never see it again. Even if he got to stay on with the Somersets, as butler he wouldn’t have the footman’s luxury of getting to leave the house on errands or visiting other houses. Grantham House had never felt a home to him as Downton Abbey had so he supposed it made little difference.

But he wasn’t there to admire the classical architecture of Belgravia, just to skim along its outskirts until he reached Knightsbridge. Until he reached Hans Place Garden, a site he’d avoided since even before the war.

_It’s just a place,_ he told himself. Just brick and mortar and steel...and the roses.

That riot of roses climbing wildly over the elegantly curving ironwork of the balcony, growing so thickly that it completely concealed everything that went on within its confines. A blessing considering how many jailable offences had gone on there.

It had begun with a key and brief letter from the Duke of Crowborough several days after they’d first met at the Grantham’s ball. Philip had provided the address of a flat he’d decided to rent, the better to escape his mother, sisters, and the many eyes of the servants at Crowborough Manor. The letter had also explained that he had to attend some luncheon with his mother on Thomas’ half-day and that as he didn’t know how long it would take to extract himself from from her clutches, Thomas should just let himself in and make himself at home if he got there before him.

After that first evening Thomas had spent every half-day with Philip in his flat, even illicitly slipping out some nights to spend them with his lover only to return to Grantham House in time for breakfast with no one the wiser. With a walk of less than fifteen minutes from the house to Hans Place it had been all too easy.

The sight of Philip waiting for him at the balcony had always secretly evoked Romeo and Juliet in his mind at those instances (if indeed Juliet had ever lounged in perfectly alluring insouciance at her balcony in a silk dressing gown with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette burning in the other while the strains of some classical score played on the gramophone), the singular inebriated mention of which had provoked much teasing from Philip for his romantic sensibilities. Mockingly delivered or not, Philip had also been able to recite every last line from the famous balcony scene which Thomas had thought infinitely deserving of teasing in return. And Thomas coming over to find his pampered Duke, who generally didn’t even trouble himself to remove his own shoes or shave his own face, watering the roses and weeding out dead leaves and branches was its own little source of amusement.

On one particularly beautiful evening, Thomas had arrived to find that Philip had dragged every pillow and blanket in the flat onto the rose-strewn balcony, building a nest for them there complete with lit lanterns, champagne, dinner, dessert and soft music playing in the background. Philip had said that since it was far too lovely a night to spend inside and they couldn’t leave the flat, an evening picnic on the balcony would have to do.

“And this from a man who claims to be unromantic,” Thomas had murmured with a teasing smile, catching Philip’s hand in his.

“I said no such thing,” Philip had protested with mock-indignation, even as Thomas drew his hand up to his mouth for a kiss. “I said romance is for fools. I don’t, however, recall ever claiming to be entirely unfoolish.”

“Well, you’re very foolish then,” he’d concurred warmly, turning Philip’s hand to place a kiss to the centre of his palm. “Thank you.”

They’d pleasurably whiled away the hours there well past the completion of their meal and the setting of the sun. They’d ended up spending the entire night there, making love beneath the stars, sheltered by their veil of roses.

The next summer that the Granthams had returned to London, a year after he and Philip had ended so terribly, Thomas had found himself walking the same all too familiar route, unable to stop himself.

_[Thomas!]_

The echo of a happy call from above had risen to greet him as he’d set foot in front of the building. A deep ache in his chest had followed, flaring into being with the knowledge that he’d never hear that call again.

Looking up to the rose-enveloped balcony from the pavement, he’d wondered if Philip still rented it and had brought some other summer dalliance there already, or if after Thomas he’d never wanted to see it again. Perhaps he’d taken another flat somewhere and brought his new lovers there. Philip may have been newly married by that time but Thomas had sincerely doubted that Philip would have troubled himself to be faithful to a wife he’d never wanted in the first place.

Thomas had stood there angry and hurt and jealous and simultaneously irritated with himself for still feeling that way, furious with himself for still caring when Philip very obviously did not. He’d turned away harshly and swore he’d never return there again and that he’d forget about the Duke of Crowborough from that day forward.

Yet there he was twelve years later, compelled to return to the scene of their crimes, on the very day he’d willingly agreed to go to work for the man he’d promised himself he would forget.

Was he mad to be making this strange little pilgrimage?

Perhaps he just wanted to stand there and see if it still hurt as much as it had the last time he’d been there. A test, was all. After all, how could he go and face Philip himself today if he couldn’t even bear visiting the place where they’d spent so many happy hours? Standing there and feeling nothing would mean he’d passed, would grant him increased courage to battle the nerves that were growing with the knowledge of just how soon he’d be seeing his lost love again.

The open park of Hans Place Garden came into view and he strode purposefully through it, glancing over the octagonal-shaped square. The familiar handsome orange-bricked [buildings](http://www.mediafire.com/view/czzgk2rl1yb52g5/Hans_Place.png) were the same as he remembered, but as he sought out that well-known balcony on the top floor of one of the tall apartments his stomach dropped.

The roses were gone.

Every last bloom from their summer had died, or had been killed. Not even a single dead branch remained to show that they had once been there. It suddenly struck him as horribly symbolic – like Philip’s letters, those once precious souvenirs of the most passionate love affair of Thomas’s life, reduced to ashes as though they’d never been.

The site of so many of Thomas’ happiest memories now felt like a forgotten grave.

A short, ironic laugh escaped him. Well, what had he expected after so many years? For time to have stood still? And what was he hoping to accomplish by forcing himself into Philip’s life? Nothing could bloom if planted in dead soil.

Moodily, he sank down onto a nearby bench and drew out a cigarette, smoking it vehemently to its end until the grief that still stubbornly moved in his breast grew numb. Then he rose, ground out his cigarette beneath his heel, and made his way up to the busy nearby shopping area of Sloane Street without a backward glance.

He had a hansom to catch and a train to board.

~*~*~*~

_TBC_

 

Books:

~ _North and South_ by Elizabeth Gaskell, published 1855

~ _Letters to Philip (on how to treat a woman)_ by Charlie W. Shedd, published 1920 (or at least so says Goodreads but then it also says the author was born in 1915, so surely he didn’t publish this book when he was five years old! :P Upon further research, the actual first publication date was 1968. lol But when I first saw the title in a Goodreads list of books published in 1920 naturally I couldn’t resist adding it to the bookstore scene...only to realize the error when I’m now double-checking the date for the footnotes.(~urgh, facepalm~) But I’m sorry, the title is just too ironic for me for remove it – I claim author’s historically inaccurate prerogative, please forgive me!)

~ _What the Butler Winked At: Being the Life and Adventures of Eric Horne, Butler_ by Eric Horne, published 1924

~ _The Waste Land and Other Poems_ by T.S. Eliot, published 1922

~ _The Inimitable Jeeves_ by P. G. Wodehouse, published 17 May 1923. All the stories had previously appeared in The Strand Magazine in the UK, between December 1921 and November 1922, except for one, which appeared in the Strand in August 1918.

~ _The Adventure of The Sussex Vampire_ (Sherlock Holmes Series Book 4) by Arthur Conan Doyle, published 1924

~ _The Great Gatsby_ by F. Scott Fitzgerald, published April 10, 1925

Footnotes:

~The present average journey time by train between London and Thirsk (which is said to be in walking distance of Downton) is 2 hours 38 minutes, with travel times varying between 3 hours and 21 minutes to 2 hours and 19 minutes.

However, trains were actually much faster in the 1920s than the average passenger train now is. Even today, the period is widely considered to be the zenith of "classic" railroading. Trains back then traveled at speeds anywhere from 25%-45% faster than they do now, varying between different trains and destinations. So even if Thomas was on a slower train, the journey likely wouldn’t have taken much longer than two hours.

~Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children (formerly the Hospital for Sick Children from 1852 to 1914) was founded on 14 February 1852.

~An unrelated macabre aside about the King’s Cross station cloakroom: In June 1934, a suitcase containing a pair of legs was discovered in that very location. A few days prior, on June 18, 1934, a woman’s torso was found in an unclaimed trunk at Brighton Railway Station. She was five months pregnant and the legs discovered at King’s Cross Station were hers. Her head, however, never turned up, making identifying her nearly impossible. Her pregnancy made some suspect she’d died after a botched abortion, but it couldn’t be proven. And a further search of the cloakroom yielded another dead body, a newborn baby girl’s, tucked into a straw basket. (Honestly, the things I learn while researching this story, a few of which I could have done without knowing!)

~[Hatchards](http://www.mediafire.com/view/dydg4tb867smj8x/Hatchards.jpg) – which claims to be the oldest bookshop in the United Kingdom – was founded on Piccadilly in 1797 by John Hatchard. It moved once within Piccadilly in 1801 to its current location.

 Author's Note: Bye, until next time! : )


	8. Chapter Seven

Author's Note: Hi, I'm back! : )

So the world-building begins in earnest this chapter. Ugh, so much stuff to describe, I'm dead from writing it. Human interaction is so much quicker and easier to write. lol And as always my descriptive abilities are far unequal to the pictures I have in my head and architecture is best appreciated visually anyway...so there will be pictures throughout for anyone who feels like looking at them. They'll be both historic photos and some of the places that inspired Crowborough Castle. None of the pictures are an exact match to the Crowborough of my mind but they all have some aspect(s) about them that I drew from, so use your imaginations. : ) Also, needless to say, our main setting will be a medley of fact and fiction. 

Oh, and if you see a number (1) at the end of a paragraph, then there's a footnote that corresponds to it. 

Chapter Seven

“ _In secret we met -_

_In silence I grieve,_

_That thy heart could forget,_

_Thy spirit deceive._

_If I should meet thee_

_After long years,_

_How should I greet thee!”_

Lord Byron, _When We Two Parted_

 

Thomas rested his head back against yet another plush armchair in first class, content for a time to watch London rush by. Once the more scenic of the buildings melted away into the smaller, unremarkable dwellings of the city outskirts he pulled out _The Inimitable Jeeves_ and tried to lose himself within its pages. Concentration was a struggle as his focus wandered from one thing to another from one minute to the next: his slightly laboured breath in a chest that felt strangely heavy and tight, a restlessness discomfort in his limbs and a faint churning sensation in his stomach.

Still, he somehow persevered through the book, pushing back at the clamouring thoughts that seemed to grow in loudness and persistence as the miles rushed by. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he glanced up from the midst of ‘ _The Great Sermon Handicap’_ and released a long breath.

_Almost there_ , he thought, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

Looking out the window, he saw the largely flat landscape of London proper was gone. Replacing it was a countryside dominated by gently rolling hills and woodlands as far as the eye could see.

Thomas tucked the old claim ticket in his pocket into the book and closed it, watching the scenery go by. As the minutes ticked away, a few lone houses began to pop up here and there in the distance, until slowly they appeared more frequently. From the look of the fenced-in fields and scattered livestock they must have been farms. Then the woodlands were thinning and they were pulling into a train station.

A conductor stepped into the carriage and called out, “Crowborough and Jarvis Brook Railway Station!” (1)

Thomas closed his eyes a moment, breathing in deeply and then slowly releasing it.

_Here we go..._

He popped the book and – seeing that the sun was shining outside with no storm clouds in sight – his umbrella into his valise and stood up, stretching briefly, and made his way outside. Stepping onto the platform, he took a breath of air so invigoratingly pure it was practically a tonic to London’s air. In London he breathed soot and smog but in Crowborough it was as though he was breathing in the greenness of the land coupled with the delicate floral notes of wildflowers.

Some of the tension left his body as he looked around with interest. A large standing sign beside the [station](http://www.mediafire.com/view/a9yai3odb9ajc8l/Crowborough_and_Jarvis_Brook_Station_-_c_1930.jpg/file) proclaimed: Crowborough and Jarvis Brook. The station wasn’t a large one by any means – at least twice as big as the little depot at Downton Village – but it was well kept and six chimneys could be counted sprouting from the slanted roof tops from where he stood. It also had a surprising number of people scattered across the [platform](http://www.mediafire.com/view/366ie9ur470de1k/Station1900.jpg/file), at least a dozen of them. Down near the other end of the platform several people had disembarked from third class and stood waiting, like him, for the porters to emerge with the baggage.

He looked back at the train, the Duchess still hadn’t come out. He sighed and glanced up to appreciate the clear blue of the sky and the warmth of the sun on his face. As he returned to idly regarding his surroundings once more, a flash of copper hair shinning brightly in the sun caught his eye. He glanced to where a red-haired boy was talking animatedly to another –much taller –boy who smiled down at him. They both stood close behind a bench where another young man slouched, alit cigarette dangling from his mouth, expression one of boredom and vague irritation. He turned his handsome tawny-haired head towards the other two and said something that made the tall boy’s smile falter and the copper-haired boy fall briefly silent.

“Ah, Mr Barrow, there you are, good,” Thomas heard behind him and turned to find the Duchess standing beside him.

“Your Grace,” he acknowledged.

“Now where are...?” she trailed off, scanning the platform and halting on the trio of young men that had caught Thomas’ eye. The smoker among them seemed to have noticed the Duchess before she’d noticed him and had already ground out his fag and stood up straight, squaring his shoulders. The other two snapped to attention as soon as he did so.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the Duchess greeted as the three young men approached.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” the redhead piped up enthusiastically, darting a curious look at Thomas, and she smiled at him even as the smoker sent a glare in the young man’s direction.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” the smoker returned soberly and the tallest boy quietly echoed him.

Footmen, Thomas identified immediately.

_My footmen, now,_ he thought, making no attempt to conceal his inspection of them.

The smoker seemed to be oldest among them, though not by much. Thomas doubted he was any older than twenty-five at most. Nevertheless, he carried himself with the barely veiled haughtiness of seniority.

_First footman?_ Thomas wondered.

He certainly hoped not. The first footman was the right-hand man of a butler without an under butler and Thomas didn’t like the look of him.

There was something about him, a watchful hardness in his icy blue eyes, that reminded Thomas of himself as a footman. Which meant he would have to keep a close eye on this one.

_What’s that saying? It takes one to know one._

The tall one was too tall, reminding Thomas of Alfred, but much younger – positively baby-faced for all his height – and possessing chestnut hair and kind brown eyes. He had strong frame but an insecure bearing, standing slightly stooped, broad shoulders turned in, as though he was unconsciously trying to make himself smaller. His movements lacked the customary grace of a footman.

_Needs works, but harmless,_ Thomas assessed.

Now the redhead was a study in extremes: fiery copper hair, electric blue eyes, a full pink mouth and a very pale face liberally sprinkled with freckles. His nose was a small and upturned thing and his teeth were crooked...yet there was somehow something rather appealing about his face, if not in the conventional sense. There was a brightness to his eyes that lay in more than just their striking colour, an inquisitiveness and expressiveness that drew the eye and kept it. The cheerfulness of his smile rather deterred from the dignified bearing that he ought to be projecting though.

Thomas thought him a very strange choice of footman; perhaps the butler had been in desperate need when he’d hired him. He looked _nothing_ like a footman ought to look, either in appearance or manner. He just hoped the boy wouldn’t end up making a nuisance of himself and by extension be a nuisance to Thomas.

As it was, the smoker was really the only one who looked and carried himself like a footman. At least when he needed to, though the near shabbiness of the brown suit he wore needed addressing. It was simply unacceptable.

_What a motley crew I’ve to work with._

Just then the trolley bearing the luggage for Crowborough trundled loudly down the ramp of the baggage car and the footmen were bearing down on it. Thomas followed to get his own suitcases from the trolley. By the swiftness with which the footmen removed the Duchess luggage, they clearly knew the sight of them well. They were also the most expensive-looking among the lot of them, with Thomas’ drawing second-place.

The Duchess waited until both Thomas’ and her own luggage was safely collected and stacked together on the platform. The smoker regarded him with narrowed eyes when he put his suitcases with hers and the other two glanced curiously in his direction but all three knew better than to make inquiries.

“Just a moment please,” she said, halting them as they started to lift her luggage and they set them back down. “I’d like you to meet Mr Barrow. He’s to be our new butler.”

The redhead and the tall one stared wide-eyed at him, their heads like a pair of weathervanes caught by winds blowing from multiple directions as they rapidly exchanged half-surprised, half-worried glances with each other then turned just as quickly back towards him. The smoker just eyed him with as assessing a stare as Thomas had given him earlier.

Thomas let his mouth curl into a semi-friendly smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

“This is William,” the Duchess introduced, gesturing slightly towards the smoker, and Thomas’ smile faltered slightly around the edges.

Would he _never_ be free of footmen called William? At least this one was a brunet.

“And this is Oliver,” she looked towards the redhead and finally to the tall one. “And Felix.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Barrow,” Oliver offered cheerily. Felix echoed him with a shy smile.

William continued to eye him before saying, “A pleasure, I’m sure, Mr Barrow,” with a barely-there upwards twitch of his mouth that didn’t reach his eyes. Without preamble he turned to the younger footman. “Felix, you get the trunk.”

Felix bent down to heft the trunk without a sign of complaint and set off around the side of the station rather than going through it. Then William and Oliver each seized a pair of the Duchess’ suitcases and followed him. Ignoring his own luggage for the time being, Thomas started to lift a pair of the Duchess’ suitcases, figuring he’d better hurry up before he lost sight of the footmen.

“Oh, Mr Barrow,” the Duchess protested lightly, waving a hand down at the luggage. “You needn’t trouble yourself. The footmen will tend to that.”

“Very well, Your Grace” Thomas acquiesced with slight discomfort. He straightened, standing uncertainly beside her. Finally, he idly shifted his attention to the passengers boarding the train down at the other end. A well-dressed, if somewhat portly, older man skirted past them hastily, then halted abruptly.

He turned swiftly back to the Duchess, removing his hat to reveal a thinning patch of gray hair. “Oh, Duchess! Pardon me, I didn’t see you there!”

She just smiled. “Good afternoon, Lord Wrottesley. Going up to London?”

“Ah, yes,” he answered quickly, patting at faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead with a handkerchief. “Going to meet the missus. Our granddaughter is getting married this weekend.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” the Duchess enthused. “Please send her my best wishes. And my regards to Lady Wrottesley.”

“Thank you,” the man replied heartily, swiping his handkerchief over his forehead again with a slightly chagrined smile. “Warm day we’re having today. It’s been pouring for week and then suddenly, this.”

“Yes, it is quite warm today,” she agreed, though there wasn’t a drop of moisture to be seen on her. “We should enjoy it while we still have it.”

“Indeed, indeed,” he agreed, inclining his head. Just then the conductor boomed out a final boarding call. “Oh! I had better get on!”

“Yes, of course,” the Duchess said, “Good day and good journey to you.”

“And you, Duchess,” he returned, bobbing his head quickly before replacing his hat and hurrying onto the train.

Just then Felix came bounding around the corner, followed shortly by William and Oliver. William drew to a halt at their baggage, hands on hips as he surveyed the remaining luggage.

“Felix,” he prompted, “Put out your arms.”

The giant of a boy did as commanded as the older footman picked up the Duchess’ three smaller valises and piled them one on top of the other in his arms. William then eyed Thomas’ valises and started toward them. A small grimace flashed over Felix’s young face and he shifted the valises in his arms, preparing to bear more weight. Oliver frowned as William picked up two more but just bit his lip.

“Ah, William, be careful please,” the Duchess interjected worriedly as William set another valise on top of the others and strain began to show on Felix’s face. Thomas thought it must have been the valise he’d packed tightly with books. “There’s no hurry to take the rest in one go. You can always come back again.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” William relented, frowning. He set Thomas’ other valise down and turned to Oliver. “Take those two,” he ordered, pointing at the Duchess’ two large remaining suitcases.

The redhead flashed a glare at him and moved rapidly, pulling down the last valise from Felix’s stack and setting it down pointedly before picking up the indicated luggage and starting off the way he’d come. William’slip curled into a faint sneer at the small insubordination before vanishing behind a blank mask in the blink of an eye.

Thomas surveyed the proceedings impassively for the time being; he was learning far more about his new footmen by not taking charge than he would by doing so.

“Well, _go on_ ,” William prompted Felix. “You can see, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Felix answered, then muttered, “Just.”

“It’s fine,” the older footman insisted impatiently. “Go on already, I’ll be right behind you.”

Felix turned and made his way forward, craning his neck to peer over the valises as he did so. Thankfully, people saw him coming and stepped out of the way as he passed.

William looked over the remaining five suitcases – all Thomas’ - and picked up the smallest two – Thomas’ father’s old and worn valises – with the barest hint of disdain painted across his face. Thomas silently vowed to get rid of the old cases at the first opportunity.

The Duchess was faintly chagrined and gave Thomas an apologetic look when William was out of earshot. “With Mr Astley having been so unwell for the last while, I’m afraid some of the younger footmen have gotten a bit unruly without a constantly firm hand keeping them in check.”

“I see,” Thomas murmured, then added markedly, “That won’t be the case for much longer, Your Grace.”

“Good,” she said soberly, then disquiet passed over her features again. “They never behave like this in front of the Duke – _they wouldn’t dare_...but they know I’m a soft touch.”

Not knowing what to say to that admission, he said nothing.

“I sometimes think life would be much simpler if we could discipline adults as we do children when they insist on behaving like children,” she mused.

“You mean spank them and send them to bed early without supper?” Thomas asked with some amusement.

“Given the temperament of some of our footmen, sooner or later you’ll end up regretting your inability to do so,” she predicted, then straightened further as Felix dashed around the corner. “Time to go then.”

The Duchess started off at a leisurely pace as the young footman came to a halt in front of Thomas’ three new suitcases. The boy lifted the two largest of them and looked over his shoulder but no one else had returned yet. Thomas bent down and picked up the last suitcase and gestured Felix forward.

“It’s all right, I have it,” he assured the boy.

“Thank you, sir,” Felix said gratefully.

Thomas followed the Duchess up a roughly cobbled path set amid the grass beside the station. William stopped abruptly where he was cutting across the lawn to reach the path, seeing them. He glanced to Thomas carrying the last of the luggage and then – without even offering to take the suitcase from him, Thomas noted – behind him to Felix. Apparently satisfied, the brunet turned on his heel and started back the way he’d come.

They continued up the path until they reached a wide dirt road. Parked along the side of the road nearest the station were a half-dozen motorcars and a horse and cart. Though motors had become much more common in the last several years, Thomas wasn’t surprised to still see a horse-drawn cart or carriage. He was still used to seeing them here and therein the country, if not often in the cities. Plenty of the older denizens of Downton Village were leery of learning to drive some “infernal machine” and also didn’t see the point in wasting their hard-earned savings on one, not when they lived somewhere they could traverse from one end to the other in less than an hour and were in walking distance of the surrounding villages as well. Not to mention that train service to further destinations was so readily available and was a much quicker – and often warmer – method of travel.

They passed the worn cart to where a dark-haired man in a black chauffeur’s uniform was securing the Duchess’ luggage to the back of an expensive-looking motorcar. It was similar to the Crawleys’ motor, with the same somewhat coach-like appearance, but a newer model if the softer, sleeker lines of the vehicle were any indication. Behind it, Oliver was leaning against another, equally pricey-looking vehicle with Thomas’ valises waiting at his feet. He pushed himself off the side of the motor with an elbow and swept a quick hand over his forehead.

“Bring the rest here,” the redhead called out, picking up the pair of valises at his feet and going around to the luggage rack.

“Good afternoon, Mr Wright,” the Duchess greeted the chauffeur as Thomas and Felix brought the suitcases to the back of the other car. Thomas set his suitcase down and made his way back to the Duchess.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Mr Wright returned with a shy smile, quickly sweeping his cap from his head. In the man’s gaze, though restrained, Thomas recognized the admiration that had been in the eyes of so many men along their journey. He was older than the footmen, perhaps around thirty years old, and had perfectly unremarkable English features. But then unlike the ornamental footmen, aristocrats rarely concerned themselves with the appearance of their drivers, so long as they were professional-looking.

Thomas raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he surveyed his surroundings. There wasn’t much of anything to look at though. Mostly, he saw green. Open green fields and trees claimed most of the view. Among them rose a church down the road and a sporadic sprinkling of small houses and occasional buildings. A few bicyclists and small groups of children traversed the road and through the fields. As it was about twenty past three, school must have let out recently.

It was both serenely pastoral and uninteresting all at once.

The Duchess caught his study of the area. “Have you been here before, Mr Barrow?”

He momentarily abandoned the scenery to look at her. “No, Your Grace.”

“Well then, welcome to Crowborough...our little Scotland in Sussex,” she added with a chuckle. (2)

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he replied with a small smile, glancing outwards again. “...Where are we exactly? I mean, which part of town are we in?” he clarified, wanting to start building up a mental map of what he hoped could be his new home.

“We’re currently in Jarvis Brook, the valley at the bottom of Crowborough Hill,” she answered, and Thomas recalled the additional name of the station. She gestured to the road the were on. “This is Farningham Road and over there...” she pointed to the far right where another street intersected with the one they were on, “...is Crowborough Hill. A half-hour walk up the Hill from here will take you to the High Street, to London Road, Beacon Road, the Cross...the centre of town basically. That’s where you’ll find most anything worth finding around here.” She paused, thinking, then pointed off to the left. “To the west of town is the Ashdown Forest, along with the Crowborough Athletic Football Club and the Golf Club. And then there’s the Jarvis Brook Football Club over to the east.” She affected a blandly sarcastic face, adding, “They really like their football here.”

“Clearly,” Thomas returned lightly, taking all that in. “And where is Crowborough Castle?”

The Duchess smirked faintly then, quipping, “Oh, at the very top of the hill, naturally. Where else would a ducal family build its house?” She paused, restraining her mirth to continue. “Most of the town was built on the hill around the castle, and in the valleys surrounding it. The summit is actually the highest point of the Weald, second highest point in East Sussex.” She fanned her face with her clutch. “And there ends my geography lesson for the year I think, it’s getting rather warm out.”

“Yes, it is,” Thomas agreed, feeling a bit sorry to have to go inside on such a day, rare as they were. “Thank you for the lesson, Your Grace.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I was always rubbish at geography. If you want a more detailed accounting you’d be better to ask the Duke or Mr Astley.” She looked to the chauffeur who, taking her silent cue, opened the back door for her with one hand and set his hat back on his head with the other. Without another word, she got in and Mr Wright shut the door behind her. As the chauffeur got in the driver’s seat, Thomas wondered if he was meant to go in her motor or the other. He looked over to check on the progress of the motley footmen.

They seemed to have finished strapping in his luggage and were all lazing against the side of the motor, only to spring into movement at the sound of the Duchess’ door closing.

Oliver looked hopefully to William as the older boy moved to the driver’s door. “Will, can I drive back?”

“No,” he said flatly as he opened the door.

The redhead stuck his tongue out at William’s turned back and Felix pressed his lips together, trying and failing to contain a smile. Thomas arched an eyebrow at Oliver when his gaze fell on him watching and the boy’s pale face turned a spectacular shade of red.

Just then, the Duchess’ motorcar started and Thomas hurriedly reached for the door to the front passenger seat only to stop when he saw the Duchess’ three small valises were piled up on the front seat. He should have known all her cases wouldn’t have been able to fit on the luggage rack.

“Mr Barrow,” William called out shortly over his shoulder as he got in. “You’re with us.”

“Oh,” he muttered under his breath, releasing the door handle and striding to the other motorcar. Felix had opened the back door and was letting Oliver slide in first before following him. He thought the boy’s long legs would’ve better appreciated the front seat but he certainly wouldn’t complain about the extra leg room himself.

He made himself comfortable in the leather-upholstered seat as William pressed the electric starter-button. They waited as the engine rumbled to life and then they were off, driving up the road and turning up onto Crowborough Hill. The slope of the hill was a gentle and gradual one but their progress was still slowed a bit by the resistance of gravity.

The young men in the backseat began to gaily exchange bits of random town gossip about whom Thomas knew not, while William’s face flickered between annoyance and grudging interest as he kept his gaze focused on the road. Keeping an idle ear on the footmen in case they said anything of interest to him, Thomas gave his attention over to the view as they navigated past other motorists, bicyclists and the odd cart through town.

A bustling farmer’s market occupied a broad clearing near the base of the hill, people milling about tables and stalls filled with colourful produce and other handcrafted goods. A jagged, ancient-looking stone wall ran lowly from one end of the horizon to the other behind the market, breaking its line at the road ascending Crowborough Hill and then resuming again on the other side. The dwellings started as cottages and small houses and seemed to grow bigger the higher up they drove until they were passing tall rows of terraced houses and some larger houses and a few churches along the way. They soon began to give way here and there to [buildings](http://www.mediafire.com/view/fu92i2lke8xjry4/CrowBroadway1914.jpg/file) housing street-level [shops](http://www.mediafire.com/view/5abbrw2cs46afbs/Vigor%2527s_Store_at_Chapel_Green_1910.jpg/file) with private residences in the floors above.

After about ten minutes or so Thomas thought they must have reached the [High Street](http://www.mediafire.com/view/o18w8rwny7gx18i/High_Street_c_1905.jpg/file) because most of the homes had been taken over by [shopfronts](http://www.mediafire.com/view/b1ss32bi65wfsfq/A.H._Stickells%2527_shop_in_Croft_Road_c_1910.jpg/file) and such. The number of colourfully picturesque flower beds and hanging baskets throughout had also increased. He took note as they passed of the locations of a [grocers](http://www.mediafire.com/view/8253o2gz4vufrca/Brooker_%2526_Filtness_shop_c_1900.jpg/file), the [post office](http://www.mediafire.com/view/5m6wf4k7ikog223/Post_Office%252C_Beacon_Road%252C_Crowborough_-_1926.jpg/file), a bank, a bookstore, the [fire station](http://www.mediafire.com/view/g0o8o1nfbnn91ob/Crowbororugh_HighSt_1911.jpg/file), a [drapers and milliners](http://www.mediafire.com/view/t3ipoo21vdg7zz0/Station_Road%252C_Crowborough_-_c_1904.jpg/file), a dental surgery, a tailor’s and shoemaker’s shop, a butcher and even, he noted with interest, a small store-fronted house that proclaimed itself a [library](http://www.mediafire.com/view/t2mclcbu39ksf7h/The_Library%252C_Crowborough_-_1904.jpg/file). Downton Village hadn’t ever had a public library and he wondered if it was open to any town resident or if it was one of those subscription libraries.

He supposed the town in general was so far similar enough to the village in appearance – clean and well maintained overall, with perhaps more money and effort put in to be aesthetically pleasing – there was just a lot more of it. The population of Downton was less than nine hundred people but a town the size of Crowborough must have been home to at least a few thousand. By the time they’d gone past the Crowborough Hospital, Crowborough Parish Council and turned the corner of the Crowborough [Cross](http://www.mediafire.com/view/pgq7rokd84ogf4l/Crowborough_Cross_1925.jpg/file), the reality of just where he was was really hitting him.

_Dear God,_ the thought flashed unbidden through his mind, _I_ _a_ _m in the_ _L_ _and of Philip._ Which was absurd – the man was named for the place, not the other way around – but the fact of it still stood.

They were first greeted by the [Beacon Hotel](http://www.mediafire.com/view/4j4aw2pm418c946/Beacon_Hotel%252C_Crowborough%252C_1914.jpg/file), a large distinguished building of dark brick with white trim, as they turned onto Beacon Road. A few small shops and motorcar [garage](http://www.mediafire.com/view/lpns5ctjo7yj6va/Crowborough%252C_Beacon_Garage.jpg/file) followed and finally, a series of cottages. Then suddenly a great iron fence was rising into prominence from among the comparatively low lying surroundings – it must have been well over a dozen feet tall. He could make out little of what lay beyond as they drove on beside it but for the lengthy bulk of a stone structure set within an expansive parkland at a far distance.

_**“**_ _ **Dun-dun-dun-dun!”**_ Oliver sang out abruptly in a false baritone, causing Thomas to glance back at him in mild surprise. “We’re home!”

William shot a swift, disgusted glare towards the backseat and muttered something inaudible, and no doubt uncomplimentary, under his breath.

Thomas just stared forward, stomach beginning to churn, as the motorcar pulled up beside the drive and waited, Oliver’s words ringing unnervingly in his head.

_We’re home! We’re home! We’re home!_

A lesser version of the Crowborough ducal coat of arms perched atop a twenty foot tall main gate, all wrought of the same heavy iron. Fences of at least sixteen feet extended from it on either side, continuing on seemingly without end. The chauffeur had stepped out of the motorcar and was pushing on the closed gates until finally theywere spread open like a pair of massive black wings.

William tsked, grumbling, “Did the stupid gardeners close the gates? We’re coming straight back.”

Thomas, all too familiar with the underlying contention between indoor and outdoor staff, said nothing. He’d always disliked outdoor staff that didn’t know their place and interfered with his work. He supposed as butler he’d be in the position of peacemaker between the various factions but well, he hadn’t officially started working yet.

“Should I close them again?” Felix asked with a note of concern as Mr Wright returned to the motor and drove on.

“Forget about it,” the older footman huffed as he turned down the drive. “If they need them closed they can do it themselves.”

A long avenue of high-reaching trees framed the road, their massive limbs stretching out to brush each other overhead in a bright green canopy of wind-rustled leaves. A succession of antique street lanterns dotted the way, dozens of them appearing at six foot intervals; they were unlit since it was only the afternoon, but after dark they no doubt lit the way beautifully. After a few minutes the procession of trees broke, opening to the uninterrupted vastness of a cerulean cloud-strewn sky vaulted above the majestic expanse of the main park.

Thomas’ first thought as the sprawling estate of Crowborough Castle came into view in the distance was that _castle_ was a misnomer.

It certainly bore a striking enough resemblance to many of the photographs of European palaces he’d seen over the years to have been called one, not only by virtue of design but the sheer scale of the place. Even from so far away he could tell that it was a hell of a lot bigger than Downton Abbey, and Downton was already plenty big.

He didn’t know a great deal about architecture – was certainly no student of it as Philip claimed to be – but he thought he recognized some of the characteristics of Baroque. It reminded him a bit of the [Palace of Versailles](http://www.mediafire.com/view/j2569946etgsc4b/versailles_3.jpg/file) – at least, a less colourful and restrained version of it, typifying sober English stateliness.

Faced with it for the first time, he could only recall how Philip had always passingly referred to Crowborough Castle as “the house”. All Thomas could think looking at the place was, “what, you forgot to mention that Buckingham Palace has a not so little sister and you live in it?” No wonder Philip had groused about the property taxes, they must have been staggering!

The road suddenly diverged into two and they turned right, following the Duchess’ car. An open field of evenly striped grass ran along on their right-hand side as they drove by the garden, bordered with yet more lanterns. It was a remarkably formal garden, the likes of which Thomas hadn’t seen since the war, when he’d sometimes spent his short furloughs wandering the streets of Paris, admiring grand French estates from the street. And this, he decided, was a very grand French-style garden – right up there with the view he’d stolen of the [gardens](http://www.mediafire.com/view/cw88n9v3oj5r69c/orangerie-chateau-versailles.jpg/file) of Versailles while peering through its [gold gates](http://www.mediafire.com/view/ce7mmhb108n3j2u/versailles_gold_gate.jpg/file). The central garden stretched out before the house like a long [green](http://www.mediafire.com/view/3j486ublqd0lkbl/garden_%25282%2529.jpg/file) reflecting pool many acres long. The ornate curves of the hedges seemed to echo the lines of the house as though it was merely another extension of its grandeur, boldly imposing its power on the natural world.

The main gravel path led directly away from the centre of the building, continuing in a straight line down the full length of the garden. Smaller paths radiated out of it, edged with perfectly clipped hedges and topiary laid out in symmetrical [patterns](http://www.mediafire.com/view/s3u2uhbn3oo2nmb/garden_%25285%2529.jpg/file). Small flights of shallow steps flanked by miniature cascades of water appeared along the main path leading gradually from one level of the garden to another. A large circular reflecting pool, smooth as a looking glass, sat in the very centre of the whole design, the blue of the sky captured within it on earth. A pair of smaller round fountains appeared along the central path, equidistant from the pool, one above and another below it. Classical marble statuary gleamed white in the sunlight from their strategic placements throughout. Further away from the house, precisely pruned trees edged the paths like a platoon awaiting inspection in straight, uniform lines.

It was almost overwhelming in its tranquilly austere orderliness, especially compared to the minimal landscaping of Downton’s estate. Christ, just how many gardeners must have been employed to upkeep the grounds?

The castle was built of a slightly warm coloured stone, like that of pale sand, and was in such pristine condition that Thomas thought it looked freshly built. Brief golden glints flashed off the gilded windowpanes in the sunlight as they drew closer. Three main floors of tall windows formed the bulk of the building, with small round attic windows above and the inconspicuously narrow windows of the basement below. There had to be at least a two hundred windows on the principle facade alone, to say nothing of the others.

The motor turned again, left this time, onto a gravel road that opened into a circular driveway as they neared the main entrance. A huge fountain filled the entire space in the centre of the drive, a single powerful jet of water rising high in the air to cascade down oversized stone steps dotted with smaller jets to ripple out into the broad round pool surrounding it.

William drew to a smooth stop behind the Duchess’ car and eyed Thomas in silent expectation. Glancing remotely at the impatient footman for a beat, he opened the door and stepped out, shutting it behind him. The chauffeur had already emerged from the other vehicle and was striding around to open the Duchess’ door. The roar of the fountain filled his ears and a faint cool mist pleasantly brushed his summer-heated skin at he goggled up at the sight before him.

Crowborough Castle was even more colossal than he’d first thought, now that he was standing before it. It was nearly four times the length of Downton Abbey, all elegant lines and beautiful stonework, and stately pillars and balconies. It was the massive dome rising above the centre of it all that was the most striking feature though. The dome was crowned by a small cupola, from which flew the crimson and gold flag of the Duchy of Crowborough.

“Welcome to Crowborough Castle, Mr Barrow,” came the Duchess’ voice from a few feet away.

Thomas turned his head to her, searching for words. “Thank you, Your Grace. It’s...uh...” _Fucking enormous!_ “It’s really something,” he finally got out.

Her mouth quirked, eyes sparkling with mirth. “It certainly is.” She waved a hand towards a tall flight of steps guarded over by a pair of stately stone lions. “Shall we?”

“We shall, Your Grace,” he replied with a quick smile and trailed behind her up the wide stone steps. Behind them, the motorcars drove off. Thomas guessed they were taking the baggage through servant’s entrance.

He drew to a halt as they reached the top of the stairs, arrested for a moment by the sight of the [front doors](http://www.mediafire.com/view/0wb7xajtx15wrbh/door_4.jpg/file). The double [doors](http://www.mediafire.com/view/tchzxjjjhddf8vw/door.jpg/file) were fashioned of delicate gold scrollwork and surmounted by a matching half-circle lunette bearing, again, the ducal coat of arms – because heaven forfend anyone should be permitted to forget a duke lived here. And high above, a gracefully curved stone pediment stood supported by massive pillars nearly the height of the entire building.

A golden door opened as they approached, a liveried footman in a wine-red-striped waistcoat opening it wide and standing aside so they could enter. Another door of gorgeously carved black ebony was opened inward.

Thomas cast one last look behind him before going in. The park around the castle stretched so far in every direction that it obliterated any hint of the town surrounding it. What must it feel like to know you were the master of all you surveyed? No wonder Philip hadn’t been willing to risk all this. He took his first echoing steps across a black and white marble floor and all train of thought was derailed.

Before him stretched the vastest foyer he’d ever seen, embodying opulence of a bygone age the likes of which no one could afford to build anymore. As Downton’s foyer was all intricately carved wood, Crowborough’s was all marble polished to a high shine from the floor to the stairs to the balustrade and handrail.

A red carpeted grand [staircase](http://www.mediafire.com/view/65xlxl6nutcf7bc/foyer_opera_de_paris_%25283%2529.jpg/file) swept its way up from the centre of the cavernous room and split dramatically into two, leading to the first floor. The broad stairs narrowed gradually in a gentle arc as they ascended, and its bottom steps extended out, rounded about the edges. Two pairs of exquisitely carved marble statues – one male and one female per couple – were somewhat sensuously entwined on the pedestal-like newels around two tall and large candelabra and themselves held aloft a few smaller ones. The figures wore the loose robes frequented by classical statues, but while the males appeared human, the females were winged angels so lifelike in their rendering that they seemed almost a moment away from spreading their majestic wings and bursting into flight. (3)

Yet more candelabra burned bright about the entrance hall, pairs of them positioned on the wide staircase landing, at the apexes of each diverging staircase as it reached the first floor, and framing the high arched doorways leading to the adjacent wings of the house. And then high above, there shone even more. There must have been several hundred light bulbs lit throughout. At night, in particular, the effect would have been positively dazzling.He bet the servants had had plenty of _fun_ replacing and lighting all those candles on a daily basis before the advent of electricity though.

Drifting across a black and white starburst on the centre of the floor, his gaze climbed [up](http://www.mediafire.com/view/px1xxtjiwj1z9w7/foyer_opera_de_paris_%25282%2529.jpg/file) and [up](http://www.mediafire.com/view/q0cwccz3lwuat3z/Foyer_4.jpg/file) and [up](http://www.mediafire.com/view/h8oq1jy145r3dyy/foyer_5.jpg/file)...

Three stories of galleries rose above the staircase, set within sculpted stone arches supported by great marble columns that wrapped around the foyer on three sides. Tall candelabra perched on small ornamental ledges between the [balconies](http://www.mediafire.com/view/b7zpk35hnk3bqmc/foyer_7.jpg/file). Light shone through large windows visible behind the galleries and more small candelabra were mounted on the walls between them, though they were unlit. High above the stone arches soared elaborate mouldings, cornices and corbels with fine gilded flourishes and detailing. Thomas swore when toffs complained about money being tight he had half a mind to suggest they try chipping the gold off their walls.

His lips moved inaudibly, forming the word, _“Christ...”,_ as his eyes finally reached the immense painting so vividly depicted on the inside of the dome.

It was a splendourous, skyscraping [riot](http://www.mediafire.com/view/0rd1izqvwuloy20/ceiling_1.jpg/file) of activity in loosely concentric circles – seraphs in flight, men at arms, saints in prayer – set against a serenely azure sky adrift with billowing white clouds. He wasn’t sure if they were biblical scenes, a dramatization of some divine war, or heaven itself but he was positively dizzied by it the longer he looked. The skill with which it had been painted created such a vision of depth and movement that he felt like he was falling into the sky. He closed his eyes a moment or two to try and shake off the effect before reopening them, turning slowly to further take it in.

Sun-like golden spokes radiated from within a round [skylight](http://www.mediafire.com/view/t85s916v10acoff/ceiling_%25281%2529.jpg/file) and was haloed by gilt patterned mouldings. Further down, a ring of windows encircled the base of the dome, providing its own share of natural light. Between the candelabra and the windows, the room was so well lit that no hanging chandeliers were needed.

It seemed more atrium than foyer and the boundless room had such an air of stillness about it that he felt like he was in a church – but maybe that was just all the angels.

If the foyer had been designed with the intention to be as grand and imposing as hell to visitors, then it had succeeded. And if whomever had commissioned this palace had told the architect, “I want you to build me a grand entrance hall that will make anyone who sets foot in it feel as insignificant as possible,” he wouldn’t have been surprised, for he felt rather small standing there in that moment.

Compared to Crowborough, Downton seemed merely a grand country house – but then the Abbey had, of course, originally been a monastery and built to house an order of monks or nuns. Crowborough Castle, on the other hand, had undeniably been built to house royalty, or personages very nearly of that stature, and no other. It was a veritable monument to the wealth and power of the Somersets looming over the whole town from its lofty perch. Where else would a ducal family choose to built its home, indeed.

The thought of being the head of a household this size swamped him,simultaneously filling him with a sense of accomplishment and trepidation. It was like suddenly going from having been first mate of a paddle-wheeled SS Great Western to the captain of an Olympic-class RMS Titanic. (4)

All the while he’d been distantly aware that the Duchess was chattering to the footman but had paid little attention until he caught the words: “Do you know where the Duke is?”

Though she spoke quietly the words echoed faintly beneath the curve of the dome, seeming to come from several places at once. It was a bit disconcerting to his unaccustomed ears – also, this clearly was not a room for private conversations but _was_ prime eavesdropping real estate.

“Believe he’s in the white drawing room, Your Grace,” the young man replied, a Sussex accent shaping his vowels.

“Good, thank you,” she said. “Mr Barrow?”

He blinked as her voice broke into his reverie, suddenly aware of the way his neck was fully craned back and his mouth slightly parted as he gawked up at the ceiling. He cringed a bit inwardly; it had been many years since he’d been caught staring, country and gauche, at anything. Worse yet, the unknown footman was watching him too.

He slowly lowered his head. “...Yes, Your Grace?”

A faint smile. “Shall we carry on?”

His heart beat a quickening tattoo in his chest.

“Yes, of course,” he replied as levelly as possible. The dirty blond-haired footman was regarding him a bit curiously but quickly averted his gaze when Thomas looked at him. He followed after the Duchess as she swept through the left-hand doorway.

The breadth of the corridors alone were wider than his old attic room had been long, he observed as he stepped onto the absurdly long carpet runner stretching down the entire length of an absurdly long hallway. The walls were white with delicate gilt ornamentation that continued up to the more ornate crown moulding. Smaller paintings within heavily gilded borders covered the ceiling but Thomas was careful not to get distracted by looking too closely at them. There would be time enough for that later. Hopefully.

“It’s rather overwhelming at first, isn’t it?” the Duchess mused as they walked down the hallway. “I think it took me a few years to get used to it. You know, I grew up getting to see the finest buildings and homes in and around New York all my life but it wasn’t until I came to England that I truly had a sense of just how young a country America really is. England just seems to live and breathe history everywhere you go, it’s remarkable.” She suddenly paused partway to the first door on the left and turned to him. “Mr Barrow, on second thought, perhaps you should wait until I’ve informed the Duke that you’re here.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he acquiesced, remaining where he was as she continued on.

The Duchess peered in the doorway and, curiously, slipped her stockinged feet free of her shoes and crept into the room with them in hand. As she disappeared within, Thomas slowly followed, taking care to step on the carpet to muffle the sound of his footsteps. He then stepped gingerly off the rug, wary of the way sounds echoed off the marble floor to the arched ceiling of the corridor, and stood outside the door. Daring to take a swift peek over the edge of the doorway, he saw the Duchess padding silently through a luxuriously appointed sitting room towards a high backed wing chair facing away from the door.

An ornate teacup and saucer sat on a mahogany pedestal table along with a folded newspaper beside the chair. Of the person sitting in the chair, he could see nothing but a pale, elegant hand resting lightly on its arm.

Thomas’ heart sped up. He’d know that hand anywhere.

The Duchess crept behind the chair and put out her hand, which vanished around the chair back, and said, “Boo!”

The hand flinched and disappeared from the arm with an exclamation of, “Helen! You’re back.”

She moved beside the chair and leaned down briefly, action concealed again by the back of the chair. “Hello,” she greeted warmly.

“How was Downton?” came the amiable reply and Thomas closed his eyes a moment. He’d long forgotten the exact sound of that all too familiar voice, deep and soft and wryly cultured, but it began to rush back to him as his heart continued to hammer.

“Very nice.” A pause as she set her shoes down and put them back on, then a dry, “The Granthams send their regards.”

“I’ll bet,” Philip said, and Thomas could just hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re back early. I thought you’d meant to stay a few more days.”

A slight shrug of narrow shoulders. “I got bored.”

“Of course,” came the amused reply. “I trust you managed to make the journey unmolested?”

“More or less,” the Duchess reported wryly. “No one bothered me on the way there.”

“What did I tell you?” Philip interjected with a chuckle. “Lady Edith Crawley, guaranteed man-repellent.”

Thomas bit down on his lip. Poor old Edith.

“You’re mean,” the Duchess remarked, but Thomas thought he heard a faint smile in her voice. “There was only one cretin on the way back who didn’t understand the meaning of no, but fortunately nothing came of it.”

“Good,” Philip said with evident relief.

“Sadly, I didn’t get to meet the infamous Lady Mary,” she continued with a touch of flippant derision. “She’s away on her honeymoon.”

“Hopefully the second husband will last longer than the first,” Philip commented dryly. “Though I have to say, _race car driver_ is not a profession that tends to promote longevity.”

“Yes, well, Edith said he decided to give it up for Mary’s sake,” the Duchess informed.

“Really?” Mild surprise coloured his voice. “And that seemed about the only noteworthy thing about the fellow, given that he has no title or fortune to speak of.”

“Neither of those things make the man, Philip,” she reprimanded lightly with an amusement that belied her words.

“No, but they help,” he insisted airily. “Particularly when he’s lacking in other areas.”

The Duchess gave a short laugh. “Apparently, it doesn’t help _that much_. You hate most of the nobility.”

“Well, I have higher standards than the average person,” Philip reasoned half-jokingly and added, “And I don’t hate most of the peerage, I...I _nothing_ them.”

“Sure, except for the ones you just plain loathe,” she put in sarcastically.

“Yes, except for them,” he agreed with a chuckle, then paused. “Now, dare I ask where this surprise you told me about is? You seem to be empty-handed.”

_A surprise?_ Thomas thought. _Don’t tell me she called him and told him I was a surprise she_ _wa_ _s bringing home?_

The Duchess faltered slightly at this, words emerging a bit haltingly. “...It, uh...he’s waiting in the corridor.”

_“He?_ You’ve brought me a man?” Philip queried, then drawled, “How intriguing.”

“Don’t get too excited,” she began carefully, “...but I’ve brought us a butler.”

“ _What?_ From where?” he demanded, mirth abruptly vanishing from his voice. “You’ve only been gone a few days!”

“From Downton Abbey,” his wife replied as though it should have been obvious.

There was a beat of silence and then a huff of laughter. “Don’t tell me you poached the Granthams’ butler – the man with the eyebrows?” Thomas’ mouth twitched at that classification as Philip snickered. “Grantham’s going to have it in for both of us now.”

The Duchess smiled. “Don’t be silly, their butler’s far too old to be worth poaching. He can’t be too far from retirement. Give me some credit.”

“Then who...?” Philip asked, puzzled.

“I hired their under butler -” she began.

_“An under butler?”_ Philip cut her off in disbelief. “You hired an _under butler_ to run Crowborough? After I turned down men who have been butlers in their own right, you’ve hired a man with less experience than any of them?” A pause and then he was grumbling, “In any case, who still has an under butler anymore? I didn’t realize it was still 1850 at Downton.”

The knots in Thomas’ stomach tightened. Would Philip insist his wife put him out before he even saw the man in question was Thomas?

“The Duke of Devonshire, for one, still keeps an under butler, I believe,” the Duchess informed him stonily, then continued implacably. “Now, if you’ve finished your little tirade...he came highly recommended by the family and by the butler.”

“If this man is so good at his job, then why were the Granthams so eager to see him leave?” Philip interrupted skeptically.

“I got the impression they’re trying to cut down on their staff, as many families have been forced to do since the war ended,” she explained evenly. “They seem to have been keeping him on until he found a new position, which is certainly indicative of a high regard. They could have simply fired him outright.”

A considering pause. “Perhaps. But it still calls the reliability of his reference into question. Grantham is something of a bleeding heart.”

Thomas frowned. Of course, Philip would notice that.

The Duchess sighed heavily. “Philip, if you choose to investigate him further, fine, but the man gave up his position to come here all the way from North Yorkshire. We at least owe him a trial period. It’s only fair,” she added, levelling him with a hard stare.

A heavy silence stretched out for endless moments until, tensed on a precipice of nervous anticipation, Thomas felt his breath begin to burn in his throat.

“Oh, fine,” Philip finally huffed out irritably and Thomas expelled the trapped breath in a rush of air. “But don’t expect me to like him,” he muttered.

“Oh, never!” the Duchess proclaimed with a sarcastic smile. “Assuming it’s safe, I’m going to bring him in now. At least make a sporting effort to pretend to be welcoming.”

Alarmed, Thomas straightened abruptly from where he’d been leaning against the wall.

“I’ll kill him with kindness, my dear,” Thomas heard Philip retort tartly as he hurriedly stepped back on the rug and rushed back down the corridor to where the Duchess had left him waiting. He had just managed to recompose himself and affect a study of a nearby by portrait when she left the room and strode down the hall to him.

“I’m sorry for the wait, Mr Barrow,” the Duchess offered pleasantly, as unperturbed as she’d been before she’d spoken to Philip.

“It’s no trouble, Your Grace,” he returned politely, even as his stomach began to churn anew – honestly, if he’d had a butter churn in there he’d have been up to his eyeballs in creamy goodness that day.

“We can go in now,” she informed him, moving towards the doorway with him in tow. “I apologize in advance if my husband is...less than friendly. The Duke can be a bit hard-headed but I’m sure he’ll warm to you in no time.”

“I’ve been in service for over twenty years, Your Grace, and I’ve yet to meet anyone I couldn’t handle,” Thomas assured her with a steadiness that belied his increasingly sweaty palms.

“Mr Carson assured me that you were very capable,” she told him with a small smile. “Nevertheless, I am glad to hear it.”

Thomas absently noted the elegance of the cream and gold wallpapered sitting [room](http://www.mediafire.com/view/ozxk3l7goc8ebze/sitting_room_3.jpg/file) with its high gilded ceiling, hanging chandelier and floor-to-ceiling length windows as he trailed behind the Duchess.

As they rounded the wing chair and Philip came into view for the first time in thirteen years, Thomas’ first thought was that time had done little to dissipate the Duke’s boyishly handsome features. And he was, in fact, neither chubby nor balding. He looked _good_.

_The bastard._

Philip raised his head from the open book in his lap at the sound of their footsteps and his eyes widened as they landed on Thomas. He froze, every muscle in his body going taut. It reminded Thomas of the time he’d startled a rabbit in the back garden at Downton.

His mouth quirked rebelliously at Philip’s utterly stupefied expression, crowing silently at having blindsided the man for once in return. He wondered if _he’d_ looked half as stunned when the Duke had informed him that a swallow didn’t make a summer.

“Philip, this is Thomas Barrow,” the Duchess introduced. “Mr Barrow, my husband, the Duke of Crowborough.”

Philip gaped up at him, and God was it satisfying.

Thomas smirked.

 

_To be continued..._

 

 Author's Note: Hi, me again. ^_^; There's really no one place that looks like the exterior of the Crowborough Castle in my head for me to have shown you but it was inspired by various architectural elements of several places: [the Palace of Versailles](http://www.mediafire.com/view/4s8cs3cs5v4n4fu/versailles_2.jpg/file), [Castle Howard](http://www.mediafire.com/view/bb42c1t00q3rx1s/Castle_Howard.jpg/file), [Luxembourg Palace](http://www.mediafire.com/view/3s3e116zc3nl2zy/Palais_Luxembourg_Pluie.jpg/file) and [Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte](http://www.mediafire.com/view/9nq9v00ry292119/Vaux_le_vicomte_1.jpg/file). 

Footnotes:

(1) Crowborough Railway Station first opened in 1868 and was originally named Rotherfield. It was renamed several times: to Crowborough in 1880, to Crowborough & Jarvis Brook in 1897, and finally back to Crowborough in 1980.

Average current train ride from King's Cross Railway Station to Crowborough Railway Station: 1 hr 40 minutes. Factoring in the lesser travel times as mentioned last chapter, the same journey would’ve taken maybe 75-80 minutes.

(2) In the late 19th century Crowborough was promoted as a health resort based on its high elevation, the rolling hills and surrounding forest. Estate Agents even called it "Scotland in Sussex". The Crowborough Beacon Golf Club opened in 1895, followed by a fire station in 1900. The town's main football club, Crowborough Athletic Football Club, was founded in 1894. Jarvis Brook Football Club was founded in 1888.

(Some nice and not so nice historic quotes I came across:

“The first thing that will strike the golfer who comes fresh to Crowborough is the wonderful view. I do not suppose there is a wider or more beautiful one in all England. With the pink of the heather and the yellow of the gorse, and the green of the fairways winding up and downhill between them, it is one of the loveliest places to be seen anywhere.”

~Bernard Darwin, 1926

Conversely, in 1822, before the development of Crowborough as a resort town, William Cobbett described Ashdown Forest as "a heath with here and there a few birch scrubs upon it, verily the most villainously ugly spot I ever saw in England” while travelling from Forest Row to Uckfield.)

(3) A note on differences between floors/stories in England vs North America to avoid potential confusion: In England, the main/ground floor is just the main floor and then any additional stories would then be the first, second etc floor. In North American, the ground floor is the first floor and then any floors additional to it are the second, third etc floor. Since I’m using the English system in the story, when I say the “first floor” I actually mean the second floor to those of you in North America.

(4) The SS Great Western of 1838, was an oak-hulled paddle-wheel steamship, the first steamship purpose-built for crossing the Atlantic. She was the largest passenger ship in the world from 1837 to 1839.

Length: 234.91 ft (71.6 m) , later 251.97 ft (76.8 m)

Beam: 57.71 ft (17.59 m) across wheels

As for the Titanic, you’re all likely are familiar with it – and if you’re not, what rock have you been living under? :p

Length: 882 ft 9 in (269.1 m)

Beam: 92 ft 6 in (28.2 m)

 

 Man, this chapter took a long time to set up...but then that's what I get for being such a photo whore! XD Until next time! \^_^/


	9. Chapter Eight

Author's Note: As it's July 1st...Happy Canada Day!!! :D Now on with the show...

 

Chapter Eight

 

“ _Bright and fierce and fickle is the South,_

_And dark and true and tender is the North.”_

Lord Alfred Tennyson, _The Princess: O Swallow_

~*~*~*~

 

“Philip, this is Thomas Barrow...Mr Barrow, my husband, the Duke of Crowborough.”

“What...” Philip began with a questioning pitch, and then – in the space of the moment it took for his wife to raise a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him – he mastered his expression with a rapidity that Thomas had to admire despite himself and continued without missing more than a slight beat, tone seamlessly modulated to one of pleasantry, “...a pleasant surprise to see you again. Barrow, was it?”

_Is this how you want to play it? All right then._

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas replied with the barest hint of a smile, neatly tucking away his smug smirk and slipping on his well-honed servant’s mask like the second skin it was.

The Duchess looked between them with surprised interest and moved to perch on the armrest of her husband’s chair. “You’ve met?”

Philip gave an easy smile. “Oh, yes, Barrow was kind enough to act in my man’s stead the last time I visited Downton Abbey.” He paused briefly to feign thought. “I believe you were still a footman at that time, yes?”

“That’s right, Your Grace,” Thomas confirmed.

“It seems you’ve come up in the world since then,” the Duke observed amiably. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he replied a bit numbly.

_If only you knew how I got where I am..._

“If I might ask,” Philip politely prefaced, “how long did you serve as the under butler to the Lord and Lady Grantham?”

“About five years.”

He nodded slightly, continuing on, “And how often would you say you oversaw the household on your own, without the oversight of the butler?”

 _Blimey_ _, does_ _he_ _actually intend to interview me?_

“Philip, I’ve already asked these things of the Granthams and their butler,” the Duchess interjected with a note of impatience.

“Yes, but _I_ haven’t heard the answers to said questions, have I?” her husband rebutted. Finally she waved a grudging hand as if to say, _Proceed if you must,_ and gave Thomas an apologetic smile.

“It’s all right, I’m happy to answer any questions His Grace might have,” Thomas assured her with deliberate calm before returning his gaze to Philip. “I’ve overseen Downton on my own at least a few weeks for every year that I was under butler. That is, when the butler took his holidays or the days when he was ill. Mr Carson recently married Downton’s housekeeper and I was in charge in the time they were on their honeymoon as well.”

“And do you feel that that amount of experience qualifies you to be at the helm of a house like this?” Philip asked, utterly neutral.

“Philip!” the Duchess said sharply, but the Duke was implacable, dark eyes locked on his.

“This is _not_ Downton Abbey, Mr Barrow, and I am _not_ Lord Grantham,” Philip warned, voice suddenly low and coldly forbidding in that way that had always given Thomas a strangely delicious throb of arousal deep in his gut whenever he’d heard it directed it at someone. Having it directed at him was another matter though. His was gut twisted all right, but not in nearly so pleasant a manner.

Then he caught it. Amid the gravity of Philip’s tone and expression, a certain telltale glint in his all too expressive hazel eyes – he was trying to rattle Thomas’ cage. Well, Thomas refused to be shaken. He lifted his chin slightly, summoning an additional layer of composure to armour himself against the cross-examination.

Carefully cultivating a tone and posture balanced between quiet confidence and poised humility, he replied, “I am aware of the greater responsibility of being in charge of a great house like Crowborough Castle and frankly, I look forward to the added challenge. I’m also aware that on paper I may be a bit under qualified, but I can assure you, Your Grace, that that will only motivate me to work harder to be worthy of the position and the great honour that you would accord me by permitting me to serve your family.”

He silently congratulated himself for keeping a straight face as he concluded this little speech; when it came to flattering the aristocracy he’d found it best to lay it on with a trowel. The Duchess, at least, appeared pleased with his response but to judge by the barest hint of a smirk that played at Philip’s pretty lips he knew in no uncertain terms that Thomas was full of shite.

“And I’m sure you’ll prove yourself more than worthy, Mr Barrow,” the Duchess said encouragingly, then informed her husband, “The Granthams and their butler spoke very highly of Mr Barrow’s abilities.”

“Did they now?” Philip murmured, steepling his fingers and resting them against his subtly sly smile as he met Thomas’ eyes.

Thomas cringed inwardly with the knowledge of all the underhanded things he’d confided to this man, never imagining that he’d someday end up being his own worst reference. Philip knew what he was about in the worst possible way. Thomas had thought he’d known what Philip was about, too, had thought he’d had him under his spell but no, history showed he’d never really known the Duke at all.

“He’s also a trained medic,” the Duchess continued. “Now we won’t have to send out for the doctor as often when the staff and the children get their little bumps and scrapes.”

Philip’s brows drew together. “That’s an unusual skill for a serviceman.”

“I worked for the Medical Corps during the war, Your Grace,” Thomas explained through the unease that still tenuously clung to him.

The Duke laced his fingers together, lowering his hands to his lap. “I see.”

“And Mr Barrow’s excellent with children,” the Duchess added eagerly, apparently determined to sell him to her reluctant husband. “The Crawley children just love him. He’s very sweet with them.”

“Really?” Philip tilted his head, regarding him curiously. “You like children then?”

Thomas lowered his eyes, unexpectedly shy. “Very much, Your Grace.”

“Well, that’s all well and good given we have four of them,” he said with some amusement and it struck Thomas that this may have been the first thing that’d been said that actually pleased him. “My sisters and cousins also have children, whom you would have to contend with from time to time.”

Thomas offered a tentative smile. “The more the merrier, Your Grace.”

“I was also told that Mr Barrow had been the one in charge of Downton during the latter half of the war when it was a convalescent home,” the Duchess further informed. “And if that doesn’t indicate an impressive managerial ability, I don’t know what does.”

 _Now why didn’t I think of mentioning that? Philip has me more_ _rattled_ _than I realized._

“The administrator of a sanatorium might also be said to have impressive managerial abilities, but that doesn’t qualify them to run my house,” Philip remarked glibly and his wife turned to glare at him, ire suddenly radiating off of her like heat off a bonfire. He shrunk back slightly at her look, holding up his hands. “Joking! Just joking!”

Accepting his surrender, she clapped her hands together victoriously, “Excellent. Now if that’s all settled, I’m going to my room to change. I’ll see you at teatime.” She reached over, brushing a few stray stands of Philip’s hair back into place before standing. “Play nice while I’m gone.”

“Don’t I always?” he replied mock-innocently.They shared a brief mischievous smile and then she left the way she’d entered, shoes on her feet this time.

They watched until the Duchess was out of sight before turning to each other. Thomas’ stomach dropped. Philip’s smile had faded away to nothing, his expression guarded. It wasn’t as though Thomas had thought this would be easy. There was no reason for Philip to be glad to see him – quite the contrary – so why the small, foolish pang of disappointment?

“Philip...” Thomas began, throat suddenly dry.

Philip averted his gaze and raised his hand, wordlessly commanding silence. He rose from his chair, lithe as ever, and strode determinedly to the door. Thomas stared at his retreating figure, chest suddenly heavy with the thought that Philip intended to just walk out and leave him there. But no, as Philip reached the doorway he closed the door quietly before him, standing there with his back to Thomas.

“You of all people should know the walls have ears,” he heard Philip say matter-of-factly. His eyes lingered on the breadth of his shoulders in his well-tailored suit and the soft mahogany hair at the nape of his neck until, finally, Philip turned to face him, resting lightly against the door. Thomas’ feet had turned to lead, trapped in place across the room from him – this man he’d never been able to be in the same room alone with without touching – as their eyes met.

Philip’s eyes, lightly touched now with fine lines yet still lovely, watched him warily. His face had matured somewhat from the one Thomas recalled. Gone was the lingering touch of childish roundness in his cheeks, that bit of softness in his strong jawline. Sharpened cheekbones had taken their place along with a chiseled jawline. Altogether it made for an undeniably handsome and masculine face, yet one that still retained the softness and boyishness that had always appealed to Thomas. But then Philip had the sort of wide-eyed, adorably smiling features and mien that would retain their air of boyishness at any age.

His hair was styled a bit differently than it used to be. It was a softer look, worn much less slicked down and more naturally than it had been before the war. But then fashions had evolved a bit since then, if not quite as radically for men as women. Thomas had always liked Philip’s hair best when it had been at its most natural; he’d also reveled in the knowledge that he’d been one of the few people that ever got to see him in such an informal state. The sight of Philip with his hair utterly disheveled thanks to Thomas had been one of his favourite sights in the world. He’d once joked that Philip’s valet did his hair like he was trying to punish it for misbehaving, but whomever was doing the styling now clearly knew what they were about. Thomas liked it – a lot, he had to grudgingly admit – it suited his face well.

There was something about this matured visage of Philip’s that intrigued Thomas as he studied it. Perhaps because it was no longer the quite the face of the boy he remembered but the face of a grown man. A man achingly familiar and foreign all at once.

“What are you doing here, Thomas?” Philip asked softly, bewilderment seeping into his voice.

Thomas steeled himself against that soft tone and replied offhandedly, “I thought that was obvious. I need a job and you have a job opening.”

Philip’s brows lowered and his words emerged coolly, “Yes, but _here_?”

“There aren’t as many service positions available as there were before the war,” he contended evenly. “Especially for a butler.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Philip granted hesitantly, then sighed. “But under the circumstances...”

Thomas’ heart sped up in alarm and he relinquished a layer of his armour, hastening to say, “Philip...I need this job,” even as he despised having to say it. He swallowed a bit more of his pride with Herculean effort. “I...I’m not here to cause problems for you or your family.” Finally, he took a quick breath, drawing himself up to his full height and lifting his chin with cool resolution. “I’m here to be your butler, Your Grace, nothing more.”

There, he’d drawn his line in the sand.

Philip stared at him and something in his eyes seemed to shutter. He glanced down, brow knitted over a troubled expression and tensed jaw. When his measured gaze returned to Thomas he searched his face for long, agonizing moments, shrewdly assessing. Thomas met Philip’s probing look squarely, waiting, until his insides started to squirm but refused to reduce himself to pleading, even with his eyes. He knew what he was asking him, and knew he didn’t have much, if any, right to be asking it. But then he’d always found that one gained more by asking too much rather than by asking too little.

“Very well then,” Philip pronounced loftily. “You may have your trial period, but don’t be foolish enough to expect anything else to come with it.” He turned on his heel and, whilst Thomas’ glower bore into his back, marched straight to the room’s bell pull beside the fireplace and gave the cord a single sharp yank. He turned, studying Thomas once more for long moments, expression gradually softening a bit. “In any case, it’s...good to see you again, Thomas.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows coolly. “Is it?” Philip’s breeding was generally far too deeply ingrained for him sustain a show of acrimony and he was all too well versed in the aristocratic art of hollow courtesies for Thomas to take anything he said at face value. At least not anymore.

“Of course,” Philip assured with a small smile that strained at the edges. “The circumstances leave something to be desired, but I’m glad to see you’re still in one piece after the war.”

“More or less,” he commented wryly, lifting his bandaged hand. He allowed himself to briefly look Philip up and down his seemingly unaltered form. “You seem to have made it out all right yourself.”

Philip gave a self-depreciating laugh. “Oh, I spent nearly the entire war behind a desk for the War Office. Most of my war wounds came in the form of paper cuts.”

 _Well, l_ _ucky you,_ Thomas thought with no small hint of bitterness.

“Doing what?” he asked instead, curious despite himself.

“I was a translator for the Intelligence Department, mainly,” Philip replied, then gave a sardonic smile. “As much as I disliked Mother’s insistence that I study German, I seemed to have an affinity for it. My French and Italian turned out to have its uses as well.”

“It probably saved your life,” Thomas observed soberly.

“Quite possibly,” he agreed as a quiet knock sounded on the door.

_That was fast. What, did they run up here?_

“Come in,” Philip called and waited as the door opened to reveal a different footman than the ones Thomas had seen so far.

Another _one? That makes five so far. Just_ _how many_ _are there in this place?_

He made a mental note to tell Mrs Hughes just how many footmen he had so it would get back to old Carson.

Surveying the new footman, Thomas could only think one thing: _Now,_ _ **this**_ _is a footman._ The younger man stood no less than six foot tall with light blond hair and cool gray eyes. He stood perfectly erect, broad shoulders drawn back and tapering down to a narrow waist. His fine features were reservedly polite, as placid as a lake on a windless day. Thomas thought him maybe a decade or so younger than himself.

“Ah, Eric, good,” Philip said, brightening, his lips curving into a smile even as Thomas frowned. “I’d like to introduce Mr Barrow, our new butler. Barrow, this is Eric, first footman.”

 _First footman!_ _Thank God it’s not William._

Thomas and Eric glanced briefly at each other, exchanging small polite smiles. The footman showed no sign of surprise at the news that he was the new butler – the three little buggers downstairs must have informed the staff as soon as they’d crossed the threshold of the servant’s entrance. Thomas knew he’d have done the same.

“If you’ll take Barrow downstairs and pass him onto Astley and Mrs. Livingston,” Philip continued without pause to Eric. He looked to Thomas. “You can have the rest of the day to get yourself situated and start in the morning.” Then back to Eric. “I’ll rely on you and Mrs. Livingston to show Barrow the lay of the land. Have Astley’s belongings packed up for the time being until we’ve decided on his living arrangements and bring Barrow’s things to the butler’s room.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Eric intoned in a polished Sussex accent.

“And if you see Blackstone along the way, send him up to my room, I’m going riding,” Philip ordered and Thomas’ head snapped back like he’d been slapped.

 _ **Blackstone.**_ That stone-faced brute of a valet who’d looked at Thomas like he was dirt Philip tracked in on his shoes was _still_ working for him after all these years?

“Oh, and tell Astley I’ll speak to him after I’ve returned,” Philip added and Thomas just stared at him.

_Why the hell is that man still working for you?_

“Yes, Your Grace,” Eric replied, brow furrowed slightly.

“Good luck, Barrow,” Philip told him, briefly glancing his way with a perfunctory smile before swanning out without a backward glance.

Left alone, the two men stared mutely at each other.

“...It’s just this way, Mr Barrow,” Eric finally said and started out the sitting room. Thomas followed him back down the corridor to the foyer. He opened a polished wood door on the left wall that Thomas hadn’t noticed earlier. Decoratively patterned red baize covered the inside of the door as they passed into the narrow service stairway, the din of the servants audible in the distance.

“It’s Eric, right?” Thomas asked – unnecessarily, he’d never forgotten the name of an attractive man in his life – to break the silence as they started their decent.

“Yes, sir,” Eric confirmed, not looking back at him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he offered amiably.

“And you, Mr Barrow,” the footman returned neutrally.

“Have you been working here long?” he inquired.

“Long enough,” Eric replied shortly and Thomas looked silently at the back of his head, compelling him to speak further. “...Since I was sixteen.”

“And do you like working here?” Thomas prompted again.

“Well enough,” Eric said blandly.

 _N_ _ot a very talkative fellow, is he?_ Thomas thought dryly.

Finally, after a pause, Eric’s voice came again with a faint note of interest. “You’re from the North?”

“Manchester, originally,” he replied lightly. No matter how he’d worked to refine his accent over the years it seemed it would always betray his origin. “I worked in Yorkshire for a long time though.”

“So that’s where you’re coming from?” Eric inferred.

“Yes, I worked for the Earl of Grantham,” Thomas added and then stopped dead at the sight of the man coming up the stairs.

It was old Stoneface himself, Blackstone.

Eric paused two steps below Thomas, shifting over to the side of the stairs to give the valet room to pass.

“Mr Blackstone, His Grace wants you,” Eric politely informed the older man. “Said he wants to go riding.”

“I see,” Blackstone acknowledged in that deep, grave voice of his that had apparently only become more baritone with age. The man’s eagle eyes shifted from Eric to the figure behind him and widened momentarily. His already hard face hardened further, immovable as a mountain, and Thomas felt his insides beginning to curdle and turn to stone – a typical side effect of an encounter with the male Medusa, to be sure.

_[“Just remember that whatever you do to His Grace, I will do to you,” the valet’s low, cold tone suddenly came in Thomas’ ear from behind, making him jolt and his skin crawl._

“ _...Given that you’re not even remotely my type, that may be the most frightening thing any man has ever said to me,” Thomas retorted sarcastically, inching away from him._

_Blackstone gave a razor-sharp smirk. “Likewise, but I will nonetheless keep that in mind should the need arise.”_

_He walked away then and Thomas stared after him, unnerved.]_

“And who is this?” Blackstone rumbled out with barely veiled distaste.

“Mr Barrow,” Eric replied quickly. “Our new butler.”

The valet’s beady eyes blazed at him like burning coals out of his rigid face.

The footman stiffened slightly, readjusting his perfectly adjusted cuff links. “...This is Mr Blackstone, His Grace’s valet.”

_[Thomas watched from the indoor balcony as the young Duke finally arrived. He removed his homburg and extended it in his valet’s direction without looking, letting it drop when the man was still a few feet away. The older man lunged for it with a speed that belied his size, catching the hat just before it hit the floor._

_The Duke glanced over his shoulder at the man with mischievous smirk. “Oh, good show, old bean,” he praised, like it was some sort of game that they played. As if in reward, the aristocrat presented him with his gold-topped walking stick._

“ _Thank you, Your Grace,” Blackstone replied, solemn as the grave as he took the stick in hand._

_The Duke surveyed the sitting room intently, as if for the first time. His eyes trailed up the curve of the staircase and caught sight of Thomas watching him silently from above and brightened._

“ _Oh, hello,” he greeted, flashing a boyish grin that made his cheeks dimple._

“ _Hello,” Thomas returned quietly, taking him in steadily._

_The Duke turned his attention to delicately tugging off his close-fitting gloves, pausing to toss a rakish wink up at Thomas as he slid one off. Warmth bloomed within him and Thomas found himself smiling back despite himself._

What a cheeky imp...

_Good thing Thomas had always had a secret weakness for the liveliness of charming, spoiled brats._

_The Duke then extended the gloves towards his valet and deliberately let them drop before the man could take hold of them. Rather than floundering to catch them, Blackstone just placidly let them meet the floor, waiting a beat before calmly picking them up. Something like disappointment flickered over the aristocrat’s face as the man set the hat, walking stick and gloves on the side table by the door._

_The Duke started determinately up the stairs, pausing halfway to toe off his leather shoes and, with light kicks in quick succession, send them tumbling down the carpeted stairs towards the valet who’d drifted to stand at their foot. The man moved rapidly up the steps, successfully catching one in hand and managing to halt the fall the other with a raised foot._

_Thomas just looked on with a bemused smile, brows beetled, as the Duke glanced down briefly to survey the man’s progress. Had he been in the valet’s place he’d have been contemplating murder by now...or at least finding another position as soon as possible. Blackstone, on the other hand, was so utterly imperturbable in the face of indignity that it was almost admirable._ _It was an ability that had certainly passed_ Thomas _by._

_Next, the Duke was meeting Thomas’ eyes and tugging open his silk necktie, pulling it off and sending it sailing over his shoulder and down the stairs with a theatrical flourish. The valet trailed behind him, catching the scrap of fabric effortlessly._

_“Will you change for the evening, Your Grace?” Blackstone inquired sedately as the Duke reached the landing._

_“_ _Perhaps,” he replied languidly, eyes drinking Thomas in, a slow, sultry smile teasing at his lips. “But I’m sure Thomas can assist me with that.” The aristocrat strode into the bedroom and Thomas, caught by that ardent gaze as if by a magnet, followed close behind._

 _And so, apparently, had Blackstone. He neared the threshold just as the Duke stepped swiftly into the doorway, resting his hands on the door frame. “_ _You’re dismissed._ _Bring us dinner at eight o’clock, and no earlier,” he commanded with an air of finality and promptly shut the door in the man’s face._

 _Thomas had met his share of_ _pompous_ _aristocrats since entering service – a few of which had been just as bad as the Duke if not worse, and he may or may_ _n_ _o_ _t_ _have contrived to spit in their food and spent_ _all_ _his_ _of_ _time_ _waiting on them in the dining room_ _while_ _fantasizing about stabbing them repeatedly with their_ _own_ _multitude of forks –_ _but having spent the last hour or so in the valet’s unsavoury company while waiting for the Duke, Thomas couldn’t claim to feel particularly bad for him._

 _“Do you treat all your servants this way, Your Grace?”_ _Thomas teased_ _at last_ _,_ _amused with the barest hint of reproval._

_“Only the ones I don’t like,” he joked._

_T_ _homas’ brows drew together. “_ _Then why keep him on?”_

_“I’m afraid I inherited him from my father,” he explained with a slight moue of distaste. “My mother won’t let me fire him – somehow I suspect she doesn’t trust my ability to choose someone appropriate,” he added with a sarcastic smile._

“ _Really, Your Grace?” Thomas replied with a faint smirk as he reached to take his hand, running a thumb over soft skin. “I can’t imagine why.”]_

It was honestly a miracle the man was still in Philip’s employ; Thomas half thought he’d have finally cracked and slit the Duke’s throat long ago. In a way, though, he was almost glad the prick was still here. Now he could enjoy two-for-the-price-one gloating over his newly attained status. Not to mention that getting to witness how much he’d aged over the years was nothing short of satisfying.

He’d been about Thomas’ age back then – tall, dark-haired, heavily muscled and looking fully prepared to break a man in half – and well, he actually _still_ looked like most of those things but for a mostly gray head of hair. The lines on his face had deepened a great deal though and he had the beginnings of sagging jowls and a double chin as well. His waistline had expanded some but overall he still looked aggravatingly robust for a man his age. If Thomas had met him in a dark alley somewhere he’d still have feared for his life.

Something about Bates had always reminded him of this man, albeit a crippled and far less fit version of him. The true resemblance had lain in his eyes and bearing. Someone that tread softly, spoke calmly and quietly, and yet had the eyes of a dangerous and calculating man.

“How do you do, Mr Blackstone?” Thomas greeted with a self-satisfied little smirk.

“Just fine,” Blackstone said shortly, eyeing him suspiciously. “His Grace hired you?”

“Her Grace, actually,” he admitted levelly, then paused, adding a touch imperiously. “You probably shouldn’t keep His Grace waiting.”

Blackstone just stone-faced him, unimpressed. He knew as well as Thomas did that a valet didn’t fall under the jurisdiction of the butler.

“Perhaps not,” Blackstone responded mildly. “I’ll see you later, Mr Barrow,” he added, continuing up the stairs and through the baize door. It sounded like a threat.

_Great, because I don’t have enough to worry about..._

Eric looked up after him, brows drawn together, and then quizzically back to Thomas.

“Is he always so friendly?” Thomas joked in an attempt to lessen the residual tension in the air.

Eric’s mouth twitched slightly in what may have been a suppressed smile. “That’s not really for me to say, sir.” He continued down the stairs and Thomas followed suit.

A blonde maid glanced curiously at him from the open doorway nearest the stairs as they passed by. Glancing through a long bank of windows set along the top half of the wall as he strode past, Thomas caught sight of a few footmen and maids sitting at a large table. The servant’s hall no doubt.

Eric drew to a halt at the first door next to the hall, saying, “Here we are,” and knocking quietly at the closed door.

“Come!” a man’s deep voice called. Eric turned the knob, pushing open the dark wood door and stepping just inside.

“Mr Astley, His Grace asked me to bring Mr Barrow to you and Mrs. Livingston,” the footman notified, gesturing slightly to Thomas as he stepped into the butler’s pantry.

Two pairs of eyes looked blankly at Thomas and then quickly at each other. One set of dark eyes belonged to a middle aged woman sitting in a chair before a broad desk and the other set to an elderly man who had a bare foot propped up on a stool behind the desk. His thinning gray hair was neatly oiled and side-parted. He sat with his pale, wrinkled hands folded over a generous middle and an open ledger, pile of papers and a fountain pen waiting in front of him.

“For what purpose?” Astley inquired in an accent as refined as any aristocrat’s, if gravelly with age.

“He’s...the new butler, sir,” Eric haltingly informed the man with some confusion, the statement coming out almost as a question.

Blimey, had the Duchess not informed _anyone_ that he was coming? The woman surely knew how to keep a secret.

 _“Is he now?”_   Astley asked with amused interest, eyeing Thomas speculatively over the spectacles perched on his thin nose. “I don’t recall interviewing you.”

“Ah, actually Her Grace did,” Thomas revealed a bit nervously, meeting his gaze and catching a glimpse of his bare foot that made him struggle not to grimace. Next to the man’s big toe was a huge bulbous mass so red and swollen that he wouldn’t have been able to get his foot into a proper shoe. He surreptitiously averted his eyes from the exposed foot and back to the old man.

 _Gout,_ Thomas recalled the Duchess had mentioned. The material of Astley’s trousers was strained around his knee as well. No wonder he’d been forbidden to come upstairs.

The old butler arched a dubious gray eyebrow at him. “Oh? And His Grace has approved of this?”

“He’s hired me on a trial period,” he disclosed, standing up straighter under the man’s scrutiny and clasping his hands before him.

The old man made a wry _humph_ sound and then replied with an air of weary resignation, “Very well then. I am Mr Astley, the...former, now I suppose, butler of Crowborough and this is Mrs. Livingston, our housekeeper.” He gestured briefly towards the dark-haired woman who sat silently appraising him. “What did you say your name was?”

“Barrow, sir, Thomas Barrow.”

“And from whence do you come, Mr Barrow?”

“Downton Abbey. I was employed by the -”

“The Earl of Grantham,” Astley finished, adding at Thomas mild look of surprise, “Yes, I know Downton Abbey. Is the Dowager Countess still with us?”

“Yes, she is,” he answered with a flicker of unspoken curiosity.

“Good, good,” Astley murmured, glancing down and picking up his pen, rolling it idly between thumb and forefinger. “The world will be a dimmer place when that sharp tongue of hers is no longer of this world...” Thomas’ eyebrows shot up his forehead just as the man’s eyes lifted again. “Do sit down, Mr Barrow,” he grumbled at him, waving a hand at the other empty chair next to the housekeeper. “Or do you enjoy making an old man crane his neck to see you?” Taken aback, Thomas opened mouth to reply but was interrupted as he spoke again. “Eric, tea if you please.”

“Yes, Mr Astley,” Eric replied quickly, turning to leave then pausing mid-step. “Oh, His Grace said we should pack up your room so Mr Barrow can move things in...and that he’ll speak to you when he returns from his ride.”

“Very well then,” Astley concurred evenly. “You can leave my books where they are for the time being.”

“Yes, sir,” the footman answered and then glanced to Thomas. “Mr Barrow, would you like your bags unpacked?”

_By nosy footmen? Hell no._

“No, thank you,” he replied politely. “I can manage.”

Eric nodded and stepped back out, closing the door behind him. Thomas sank down into the other chair in front of Astley’s desk, feeling like a naughty schoolboy sitting before the headmaster. Was this crotchety old man really the same one that Philip was so attached to?

The man must have been in terrible pain though, Thomas reasoned...and he’d looked after enough convalescing men in his life to know how irritable chronic pain could make someone. One just had to take the sickly with a pinch of salt sometimes.

Life was never without its challenges, no matter where you were.

~*~*~*~

Two stories above, Blackstone turned the gilded doorknob to the Duke’s suite, moving through the opulent sitting room with stealthy footsteps that belied his size. He passed through the open door of the bedroom and glanced around but the nobleman was nowhere to be seen. He crossed the length of the room and entered the dressing room. Inside, the Duke paced back and forth before the window, startling to a halt when he noticed him standing there.

“Christ, man, make a noise!” he exclaimed irritably. He’d been giving Blackstone this order unsuccessfully for years.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Blackstone said contritely, as he always did. “I did try.”

The Duke just huffed at him in reply, moving to stand before the full-length mirror in his dressing gown. Backlit by a swath of sunlight from the window, the edges of his hair transformed into a white-gold corona and for a moment Blackstone was almost looking at a younger, smaller version of Master Philip’s father. He slowly blinked the vision away and set to pulling together the lightest riding outfit he could given the heat of the day.

“I met your _new butler_ downstairs,” Blackstone informed him carefully as he held out a pair of white Jodhpurs.

“Ah,” the Duke murmured, vaguely discomfited as he untied his dressing gown and stripped it off, passing it to him in exchange for the breeches. “And?”

“Nothing, Your Grace,” he replied mildly, respectfully averting his gaze as the Duke stepped into the breeches in nothing but his silk underpants. “I was just letting you know.”

The Duke looked up from adjusting his Jodhpurs, eyes narrowing at him in the mirror. “All right, out with it. I can feel you radiating disapproval from here.”

Blackstone pursed his lips and passed him an undershirt, saying finally, “I don’t think it’s wise for him to be working here, Your Grace.”

“Wise?” the Duke repeated wryly. “No, I suppose not. But when have my decisions regarding Thomas ever aired on the side of wisdom? Aside from leaving him in the first place, perhaps.”

“He’s tried to blackmail you in the past, Your Grace,” he cautioned, for all that the Duke had ever listened to him when he’d warned him against Thomas Barrow. “What’s to prevent him from doing so again?”

“Common sense, if not common decency, I should hope,” the Duke asserted derisively as he pulled the undershirt over his head and started tucking it into his breeches. “I still have his letters, whereas he no longer has mine...but hopefully no such ugliness will repeat itself. I think Thomas is more interested in staying employed than in blackmail this time around.” He met Blackstone’s gaze in the mirror, voice hardening. “But should I be wrong, I’ll deal with him myself, Blackstone. You’re not to interfere.”

Blackstone frowned deeply at this, silent.

 _“Am I understood?”_ the Duke demanded, low and sharp with displeasure at his lack of submission.

Blackstone swore he sounded just like his father in that moment and a part of him thrummed with pleasure at it. If only his command wasn’t one that left him so terribly vulnerable.

“...Yes, Your Grace,” he relented unhappily, then added for perspicuity. “But I don’t like it.”

His young master just smirked at this bit of impudence, intoning lightly, “Well, how fortunate it is that you’re not paid to have opinions unless I wish you to have them.”

Blackstone almost smiled at that. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He would obey his Duke and leave Thomas Barrow to his devices.

For now.

 

~TBC~

 


	10. Chapter Nine

Author's Note: I know, what's this? Finally a long overdue update? You're not dreaming. lol I'm yet another year older today so I thought that warranted another chapter since I also posted a chapter this day last year. It's the start of a tradition! So...catch you in a year. \^_^/ Just kidding! (I hope...)

Omg, it's already after 6:30 am and I'm soooooo smashed right now. I can only beg you to pardon any mistakes that may have escaped my half-asleep editing. And to the lovely readers that are still awaiting a reply to their comments, please forgive my complete and utter flakiness. Your comments make my day every time I read them and I look forward to chatting with you all...once I've gotten some sleep and survive the day's festivities.

Anyway, thanks for reading! Good night, or good morning. Both are accurate right now.

 

Chapter Nine

 

“That’s me in the corner

That’s me in the spotlight

Losing my religion

Trying to keep up with you

And I don’t know if I can do it

Oh no, I’ve said too much

I haven’t said enough.”

 

R.E.M., _Losing My Religion_

 

_~*~*~*~_

 

Lady Charlotte Somerset put the finishing flourish on the final copy of the upcoming term’s lesson plan, blotting carefully at her last sentence. At last she leaned back in the hard wooden chair behind her desk, trying to stretch the stiffness from her limbs; she really needed to remember to bring a few cushions from home with her next time she came to school. She gathered up the rough copy of the lesson plan she’d written over summer with all of its messy additions, scratched out sections and accidental ink blots and put it aside to be thrown out later. Satisfied with the lengthy task finally completed, she straightened the finished stack of papers now ready for its final submission to the headmaster.

Her gaze drifted over the small sea of battered wooden desks in the small classroom before her and she added wood oil to her mental list of things to bring from home. Not that a good polish would make much of a difference to the poor old desks but she had to try _._ What she’d really like to do was just buy new ones for the whole school, but she’d learned the hard way that excessive charity on her part made her colleagues uncomfortable at the best and resentful at worst. The schoolmasters and the parents of the children in attendance may have been comprised of the working and middle classes but they were a proud bunch. They somehow seemed to take suggestions for improvements from her as criticisms rather than as her simply trying to help.

It was the price she paid for being a member of the Somerset family, she supposed. Lamenting the unspoken prejudice of the townspeople towards her just resulted in being told that that was what she got for sticking her oar where it didn’t belong.

It was a measure of Charlotte’s sheltered, ivory-tower-ensconced upbringing that the most radical thing she’d done in her thirty-one years thus far was to attend university (her, a mere female, how shocking) and pursue a teaching post at the local school (a lady of her stature having a job – and working with _commoners_ no less – how her grand predecessors must be churning in their graves with mortification, to say nothing of her living relatives).

The Spanish flu had nearly been the death of her – and her battle with it had altered her irrevocably.

She’d no longer been willing to suffer silently beneath the straits of her sex and social position, no longer content to just accept a life of privileged indolence and boredom. She’d _lived –_ when so many more deserving than her had perished _–_ and by God she’d sworn to herself that she was going to fight to make fuller use of the gift of life she’d been granted. Once she was deemed well enough to leave off her interminable bed rest, she’d gathered her courage, dressed, and gone downstairs to join her mother and brother at teatime and given voice to her desire to further her education.

Sure, Charlotte was decently well versed in womanly attributes – even if Mama found her lacking – she was fluent in French and Italian, could play the piano and violin, sing, dance, sketch, paint, sew, embroider, crochet and curtsy competently enough but ask her to solve an algebraic equation, for instance, and she’d be forced to say, “Sorry, can you hold on while I go find a man?” Or, well, Helena – because at least _her_ father had allowed her to attend Barnard College. Apparently her governess hadn’t felt it necessary for her to know how to do much much than basic arithmetic, and the less said about the cavernous hole where a decent knowledge of the natural sciences should have resided the better.

But Charlotte did say it then. For the first time, she’d hesitantly put into words the insecurity and inadequacy she’d been made to feel during those years she’d volunteered in various schoolrooms due to their wartime shortage of teachers.

Philip’s incredulous response to her admission had been less than encouraging, verging on infuriating. She supposed she ought not to have been surprised.

“Are your maths skills truly that bad? What’s two plus two?”

Incensed at being taunted whilst she was trying to discuss a serious issue – and by he who’d had the privilege of the first class education that she, as a girl, had been denied – Charlotte had given what seemed the only appropriate response in the moment: a one-finger salute.

_“_ _Charlotte!”_ Mama had gasped, utterly aghast. _“Stop that at once!”_ Philip had just gaped at her a moment, mouth opening and eyebrows hiking up his forehead before settling into a tight-mouthed grin as their mother continued, scandalized, “Well, I don’t need three guesses to tell where your sister learned such a crude gesture. Heaven forbid your wife should teach her how to act like a lady...but then one cannot teach what goes so unperceived.”

“Uh, no, darling, the answer is four,” he’d informed Charlotte mock-sweetly over their mother’s diatribe to wiggle a pair of V’s formed by his index and middle fingers at her. “It seems you’re in even more dire straits than I realized.”

“Philip, don’t encourage her!” Mama had said sharply under her breath, darting a glance at the attending footman. Thankfully Eric’s expression was masterfully controlled as he stood by the sideboard manning the tea service.

Her brother had quickly settled his hands back on his tea cup and saucer, tucking away a smirk and replacing it with a contrite expression. “I beg your pardon, Mother. You were saying, Charlotte?”

Charlotte had folded her hands neatly in her lap and continued, refusing to give into her urge to throw a scone at him. They were grown now, even if Philip frequently refused to act like it.

After six seasons without a successful proposal of marriage Mama had likely viewed her as a lost cause, and so had been quite willing to arrange for private instruction – she’d always been a proponent of women’s education – but had been bewildered and dismayed when Charlotte had said she wanted to go away to university. An unmarried young lady of her standing going off on her own, away from the protection and supervision of her family, what on earth was she thinking? Lillian Somerset was nothing short of practical but her sensibilities had largely yet leave behind the Victorian era.

Charlotte had braced herself, prepared to dig in her heels, when Philip had surprised her by interjecting conversationally, “There are women’s colleges at Oxford, Mother – the classes and dormitory are separate and there are strict rules of conduct and curfew. It’s quite respectable. Plenty of women attend university these days.”

Well, _plenty_ was something of an exaggeration but she was grateful for it nonetheless.

Mama’s mouth had compressed itself into a thin line. “Be that as it may, I do not approve. And attending Oxford is a costly affair. Just how do you intend on financing yourself, Charlotte? Because I will not.”

She’d shriveled a bit at that, replying meekly, “Well, it doesn’t have to be Oxford...”

_“Of course_ you’re going to Oxford!” Philip had exclaimed, as though the thought of anything less offended him. “Every Somerset worth their salt for over six hundred years has gone to Oxford! Our Charlotte will be the first Somerset woman.”

Astounded, Charlotte’s face had lit up, a grin splitting it from ear to ear. _“_ _Philip...r_ _eally?!”_

Mama’s forehead had scrunched up in disbelief, shooting her brother a look of consternation. “You mean to say you intend to pay for her?”

“Well, yes, Mother, I thought I’d already made that clear,” Philip had replied with deliberate, patronizing calm, sipping at his tea.

Ah, but there were times when, occasionally – despite the sheer pain in the arse that he was – Charlotte loved her brother to pieces. That had been one such time.

Unable to hold back a squeal of joy, she’d launched herself off the sofa and straight at Philip. He’d started as her suddenly flung arms about him nearly upset his teacup, managing deftly to rebalance it before it could make a fatal tumble from its saucer. He’d stiffened briefly as she’d gushed out her amazed gratitude at him – they’d never been a very physically demonstrative family, though Charlotte thought Philip had grown more accustomed to such affections after marrying Helena, who was nothing if not demonstrative in her affections – before relaxing and patting her hand awkwardly as he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

“All right, all right, you’re welcome,” he’d said with a chuckle. “Just make sure you work hard. We have a reputation for excellence to protect.”

Charlotte had just rolled her eyes at him before releasing him. “Yes, yes.”

“Quite so,” Mama had interposed with a familiarly palpable _really-Charlotte-control-yourself_ frown at her antics. “If you are to attend, you will be representing the family.”

“Of course, Mama,” she’d quickly complied, sobering her expression even as her insides quivered with excitement. For the first time in twenty-four years she would be going out into the world! She gave a carefully sombre nod, adding earnestly, “I understand my responsibility. I’ll make you proud, I promise.”

The lines of Mama’s face had softened somewhat. “See that you do, Charlotte.”

Philip then authoritatively steered the conversation to the subject of preparing for the entrance examination and admissions deadlines. There was a faint undercurrent of excitement in his words that she couldn’t help but wonder if she was imagining or simply projecting. She’d listened with rapt attention, grateful for his guidance in the matter. He’d hire a suitable tutor to get her up to snuff but warned that if she was indeed as behind in her education as she claimed that she may not be ready to start in time for the coming Michaelmas term and would have to wait another year. She’d countered that that was fine but that she would still work as hard as she could to try and pass the exam so she could attend that autumn, even though it meant learning several years worth of material in the space of five or six months.

And so she had. Her results on the examination hadn’t been great if she was honest – she knew she’d have done a lot better had she not pushed herself so hard and given herself an extra year to study – but it hadn’t been too bad either. She’d still done well enough to qualify and she’d been proud of herself nonetheless. She’d even thought Philip was proud of her, even if he didn’t say so outright. He did say she’d done well to have learned so much in so short a time, but had advised her to keep up her studies in her weaker areas until she was firmly caught up or she’d soon suffer for it at school. And so after the summer of continued studying had ended, Charlotte was off to Lady Margaret Hall with a final admonition from her brother.

“Make sure you stay out of trouble, or you know who’s going to get the blame? Me!”

Charlotte had smirked; true enough. Still she’d scoffed, “Just what sort of trouble do you think I can get into? I’m going to _school_ for heaven’s sake!”

“You say that as though school is some hallowed place where nothing untoward ever happens,” he’d retorted with surprising vehemence. “I lost my virginity on a desk at school– things happen.”

She’d recoiled as he stated the last, mouth puckering in distaste. Her brother was usually fairly close-mouthed about his personal affairs but then sometimes something would slip out that she just wished she could unhear. “Ugh _,_ I did not need to know that! _Ever._ ”

Indifferently, Philip had continued, “My point is that sometimes things happen, whether we mean them to or not. You’ll be on your own for the first time and no one will be looking after you. Don’t take anything for granted.”

Charlotte hadn’t, and four years later she’d successfully completed her degree with high honours and without incident – or at least no incident scandalous enough to reach the ears of anyone back home. Then, not long after her return to Crowborough, she’d announced – to the family’s horror – that she’d accepted a teaching position at Crowborough School.

Philip’s look of perplexed disgust had been such that she was quite certain that had she made her full intentions known earlier he’d not have been so eager to send her to Oxford. It was always more prudent to play the game and avoid rocking the boat until she was sure where she wanted to go – and that she had a plan in place to facilitate it.

_“_ _The village school?”_ he’d repeated in disbelief. _“_ _But w_ _hy...?_ If you’ve a yen to try your hand at teaching then why not at least somewhere respectable like Cheltenham?”

Charlotte had swiftly countered that while Crowborough School may not have been as prestigious as Cheltenham, the school that their grandfather and built and donated to the town was not disreputable in the least. If she taught locally then she could live at home which would both please Mama – who would never ever permit her young unmarried daughter to live by herself in a million years – and herself, for she had no desire to be further separated from her beloved Crowborough or her adored nephew and nieces if she could help it. Having to leave behind little Nicky and her baby nieces to be away at school for so long had been the only thing thing that had truly grieved her.

And the world was changing, Charlotte had reminded Philip. She could no longer deny that their upbringing had nurtured in them an inborn distaste for the lower classes. If they didn’t adapt and learn how to bridge the gap between themselves and the rest of society, they wouldn’t survive in the long run.

Philip had just looked back at her grimly; he’d never liked being faced with unpleasant realities. “Sounds like a potentially disastrous social experiment. Good luck with that. Let’s just hope it doesn’t end with the townsfolk storming the castle with pitchforks and torches ablaze.”

And with that dubious blessing, she’d embarked on her first year of teaching a group of squirming year one students, managing, just barely it sometimes seemed, to avoid any major disasters. On days when she’d felt overwhelmed by her inexperience, a part of her had still wondered whether – despite her academic over-qualifications – Headmaster Foster had only given her the position because she was a Somerset and he’d been afraid to refuse. Philip sat on the local school board, after all, and Crowborough School wouldn’t even exist were it not for the philanthropy of their grandfather over sixty-five years prior – not to mention their annual endowment had been providing scholarships to the grammar school since its inception. Somehow, she’d fought through her insecurities and muddled along. Philip, predictably, only managed to be sporadically helpful.

Her first day on the job he’d taken one look and her clothing and remarked, “I thought you’d taken up a teaching post, not a position as some sort of sanitation worker. Somehow I doubt your colleagues will appreciate you condescending to dress yourself down in order to work in the same building as them, especially given that they’ve likely noticed how you dress in town. _But_ far be it for me to cast sartorial aspersions, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Carry on.”

With that bit of sarcastic flippancy to start off her morning shared, he’d strolled out of the dining room before she could retort that she didn’t take fashion advice from a men who relied on their wives to oversee the styling of their hair. Charlotte had scowled briefly at him through the wall and then frowned down at the rather drab ivory linen blouse and brown wool skirt left over from the war years she’d elected to wear. _Bloody Philip._ Abandoning her tea, she’d run back upstairs to change.

Then, on a summer’s day two years ago when Charlotte, feeling particularly daring, had finally gotten her long dark hair cut into a fashionably sleek bob, Philip had commented, ever drolly, “Well, I see my days of wishing for a brother are at an end. Perhaps you’d like my tailor’s card so you can put in an order for some suits to match your new hairdo as well?”

Had their mother not been present she’d have replied with a punch to his arm, instead she’d given him a sharply sweet smile. “How kind of you to think of me. Please do give it to me later.”

Mama had just sighed, massaging her temple in her customary way, as though her children gave her a headache simply by existing.

Later that evening, Blackstone indeed had come knocking on her bedroom door bearing the card of Philip’s London tailor. Initially she’d been about to write something perfectly vulgar on the back of the card and send it back to him in response until she’d thought better of it. She’d just thanked the valet instead and sent him on his way. The next morning she’d cabled the tailor with her measurements and an order for a half dozen variety of fine suits to be charged to the account of the Duke of Crowborough. That the man hadn’t even cabled back to question the order spoke volumes about the odd requests he must have been privy to. The tongue lashing Philip had gotten from their mother upon the delivery of her new suits had been a more than satisfying retribution. Her own tongue lashing had, of course, been both expected and worth it.

“ _Charlotte Somerset, for shame!_ It’s a sin to deny your sex!”

“I’m not denying anything. Can’t a girl ever just feel like wearing trousers?”

“No, she _cannot_. Now, go and change at once before I decide you’re not too old for a birching!”

“...Yes, Mama.”

Succeeding in getting the footmen to break character and gape at her had been completely worth it, too...

“Miss Somerset, _look!_ _”_ a young voice exclaimed excitedly from the open doorway, breaking her reverie. A small curly-haired boy in worn play clothes ran up to her desk, brandishing a coin in his outstretched palm for her inspection.

Charlotte peered down at the bright gold sovereign with a start. That was a lot of money for a little boy, a working man’s wages for an entire day.

“My my, that’s a shiny coin you have there!” she praised with a smile. “Did you find it when you were playing? Do you remember what we talked about in class a few months ago, Luke? About what to do if you find something that doesn’t belong to you?”

“Turn it in to a teacher or my da,” Luke recited brightly. “But Miss Somerset, I didn’t find it! It was given to me by the Duke!” The boy stroked the coin in awe. “It’s _gold_ , isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Charlotte answered distractedly. “What do you mean the Duke gave it to you?”

“He gave it to me just now,” he explained leisurely, putting the sovereign in his trouser pocket. “He said to tell you to come outside and talk to him.”

A bolt of dread flared within her. Philip had never once shown up at the school the entire two years she’d been working here. Something must have been very wrong.

Her chair scrapped loudly against floor as she pushed it back abruptly and darted to her feet hurriedly.

Luke’s eyes widened, startled. “Are you all right, Miss Somerset?”

Charlotte forced herself to take her unease in hand and forced a smile. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Luke. I’d better go see what His Grace wants.”

“Can I come with you?” he asked plaintively. “I wanted to pet the Duke’s -”

“His Grace,” she corrected automatically as she rounded the desk.

“Um, His Grace,” Luke repeated uncertainly. “I, I wanted to pet his horse but he wouldn’t let me. Maybe if you asked he would.”

She smiled regretfully. She knew he must have been bored having been forced to stay at school all day with no one to play with because his father, the headmaster, had to be there and the boy had no mother to look after him at home.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized gently. “His Grace would have let you play with his horse but some of them don’t like strangers. The last person who tried to ride one of His Grace’s stallions without his permission got kicked and shattered his kneecap.”

The boy’s eyes went round. “Oh.”

Charlotte ruffled his already mussed hair as she passed him on the way to the door. “You just wait here, all right? I’ll be back soon and then we can play marbles again.”

“All right,” Luke murmured, perking up a bit, and pulling out his sack of prized marbles from his other pocket as she left.

She hurried down the corridor of the primary school and past the polished darkness of the broad staircase that led up to the grammar school classrooms above.

“I wonder what your namesake wants,” Charlotte whispered to the handsome fair-haired, hazel-eyed visage of her grandfather in the glass display case in the foyer. The small bronze plaque engraved with _‘The Most Honourable Marquess of Winchelsea, Lord Philip Somerset,_ _1860_ _’_ just gleamed silently at her from underneath the portrait as she burst out the front door.

What on earth was Philip doing here, and _now_ , just after four o’clock? He ought to have been at home having afternoon tea with the children, they would be upset if they didn’t get to see him.

She squinted in the bright afternoon sun, glancing around the stretch of the empty schoolyard for her brother. The silhouette of a horse grazing beneath a tree near the edge of the yard caught her eye first, followed shortly by the smaller figure of a man nearly masked by the size of the stallion as he stood leaning against it.

Surprised, she made her way towards him past the teeter totter and Luke’s temporarily discarded rolling hoop and hook.It was unusual for Philip to forgo the riding trails and venture into town on horseback, though she doubted he’d have been self-conscious in the least to have been seen cantering along beside motor cars on the roads as she’d have been. Thankfully, the townspeople had learned to take the eccentricities of their noble family with a grain of salt over the generations.

“Please tell me you’re not here to pick me up in lieu of the chauffeur,” Charlotte said by way of greeting, as she noted the green of his riding coat with some relief. No black at least meant no one was dead.

Philip smiled faintly, thoughtfully amused, as he glanced back at the aging Charon and stroked his chocolate brown mane. “I suppose we could be, so long as you’re not bringing the stable boys today.”

She couldn’t prevent herself from rolling her eyes at his obliviousness. Perhaps she should have been grateful that he’d even noticed that she’d been bringing Norman and Simon Harris home with her when the chauffeur came to collect her after school since the wintertime. They were the sons of their stable master and worked for a few hours in the stables every day. It was the least she could do to spare the young boys from having to walk such a long way up the hill to get to Crowborough, especially in the cold.

“The school year hasn’t started yet,” Charlotte informed him dryly.

“Oh, right,” he murmured distractedly. “The harvest is only just starting.”

“You also seem to have mistaken Luke for a footman,” she continued, a touch irritably.

“Who?” he inquired, puzzled.

“The seven-year-old you gave the guinea,” she elaborated. “You shouldn’t have given him so much, it’s inappropriate.”

Philip’s brow furrowed. “It was all I had. And the boy was looking a little ragged around the edges, I thought he could use it.”

“He’s the _headmaster’s_ son!” Charlotte exclaimed, cheeks heating in embarrassment. Charon raised his head briefly, looking at them, before deciding to proceed with his patch of grass.

The Duke gave the stone edifice an assessing look, plainly mystified. “A school this size has a headmaster? They clearly don’t pay him much.”

She thought she heard him mutter something about “delusions of grandeur” under his breath and had to strain to hold her temper in check.

“To what do I owe this honour?” Charlotte asked crisply.

“Hmm?” Philip murmured, glancing down at a small rock near his boot and kicking at it lightly.

When no further response was given, she prompted impatiently, “Why have you graced me with your presence?”

That caught his attention. He looked up, amused. “Was that pun intended?”

Annoyed, she put her hands on her hips. “Why are you here, Philip?”

“Can’t a man visit his sister at her place of work?” he rejoined defensively.

“Not when the brother in question is you,” Charlotte countered.

Philip balked. “Well, I’m almost offended.”

“Is everything all right?” she asked worriedly.

His faint smirk fell away and a tense silence followed, his usually collected façade fraying about the edges. Her eyes followed him, heart quickening with apprehension, as he straightened and stepped away from the horse. “Philip? Has something happened? Are the children all right?”

“Oh, no, they’re fine,” he reassured her quickly, conflicting emotions chasing each other across his face. Intently, she waited as he went on, stiffly reluctant. “I...I have a problem.”

“ _I know_ ,” she replied, utterly deadpan. “Anyone who’s met you for more than five minutes knows you have a problem.”

“I’m being serious.”

Charlotte snickered at her brother’s irked expression, quipping, “So am I.” Philip shot her an aggrieved look and she sighed theatrically. Someone wasn’t in a joking mood. “Oh, _all right_ ,” she huffed out in resignation, “what’s your problem?”

“Helena’s hired a new butler,” he began carefully.

She just stared at him. Honestly, this prima donna...

“Is that all?” she blurted in disbelief. If she hadn’t been empty-handed she’d have thrown something at him for making her worry about nothing. “It’s about time! I don’t know why she bothered with your protests as long as she did.” Then again she generally didn’t know why Helena bothered with Philip at all. “Change happens, Philip. Better to try and embrace it.”

“Oh God, I don’t care about that!” he burst out, making Charon’s ears prick up as he regarded them again. “It’s _who_ she’s hired.”

Momentarily rattled by his uncharacteristic upset, she paused, perplexed, and then rolled her eyes. “Let me guess: _you don’t like him_. He may not be Astley but at least give him a chance -”

“The issue is rather the contrary,” Philip cut her off tersely, then hesitated, visibly discomfited. “It’s...well, it’s Thomas.”

“Thomas?” she repeated blankly. She could think of nearly a dozen Thomases that they knew of.

“Thomas... _Thomas!_ ” he prompted impatiently, voice raising an octave with every repetition as though shouting at her would somehow help jog her memory. She glared at him in annoyance as he flapped a hand at her and exclaimed, “You know... _Thomasina!”_

The name suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks.

Her mouth gaped. _“Thomas!_ _ **Your**_ _Thomas?”_

_**[** Charlotte knocked on the door again, calling out worriedly, “Philip? Philip, are you awake? It’s Charlotte.”_

_Still no answer. Maybe he was asleep, though he never went to bed so early. She sighed, glancing at the silver cloche-covered tray that a footman had left on a side table in the corridor. She’d volunteered to take it to Philip after dinner since he’d turned the man away._

_She hadn’t been particularly surprised when her brother hadn’t turned up for lunch but when Blackstone had announced he wasn’t feeling well enough to come down to dinner either she’d been concerned...and irritated. Philip knew she hated dining by herself with all the footmen and Astley just standing about at attention while she ate alone in the cavernous dining room because Mama was away visiting with friends! He could have at least had the consideration to show up and sit with her. It wasn’t like him to be so rude and he’d not have dared it had Mama been there._

_Still, a prickle of guilt needled her. She’d not been very nice when Philip had returned prematurely to their London house from Downton Abbey with news that Lady Mary wouldn’t be inheriting her family’s fortune after all._

_“You mean I don’t have to have_ Mary Crawley _as a sister-in-law? Praise God,” she’d said, pronouncing the name disdainfully in face of the worry so clearly etched on her brother’s features._

_Philip’s expression had drawn taut as he’d responded tonelessly, “Well, I’m glad at least one of us is pleased,” before vanishing upstairs for the rest of the day._

_Her bloody conscience had then decided to nag at her with increasing intensity as the hours passed. Just because_ she _thought Mary was a frigid, status seeking bitch didn’t mean Philip hadn’t liked her. Hell, for all she knew maybe he’d even loved her – they had gotten on awfully well when she’d seen them together at Northbrooks – and was now brokenhearted because he couldn’t marry her even if he wanted to. The family needed an heiress, no one less would do thanks to their strained finances after having to pay out death duties on the estate twice in less than a decade._

_Charlotte knew all too well the anguish that accompanied her own thoughts of someday having to marry some well-born gentleman she didn’t love. And Philip, more than anyone, bore the full brunt of familial responsibility. She’d been unkind to her brother and as she was the only one home, it fell to her to see that he was looked after._

_Decided, she turned the doorknob; thankfully it wasn’t locked. Leaving the door to the sitting room open, she went to retrieve the dinner tray and brought it in, leaving it on a table for the time being. Philip needed to eat something whether he liked it or not._

_She knocked on the closed bedroom door._

_“Go away,” came Philip’s muffled voice. Ignoring him, Charlotte turned the gilded handle; she wasn’t some servant to be ordered away._

_The strong odour of alcohol assailed her as soon as she walked in and she started as something hard crunched beneath her foot. Lifting it – and glad that she was wearing thick-soled shoes – she saw a fractured piece of glass. Alarmed, she pushed the bits to the side with the toe of her shoe and searched the ground. Dozens of shards glittered in the light of the low-burning fire all over this part of the room, drops of liquid glistening on the floor among them. She recognized the familiar scent of brandy._

_Philip lay atop the covers of the bed propped up by a mound of pillows, head tilted back with his eyes closed. Despite the late hour, he was still in his trousers and dress shirt, rumpled shirt pulled loose from his waistband and partially unbuttoned. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw and mussed hair fell over his forehead and into his eyes like he’d been running his hands through it._

_She stared. She’d never seen her annoyingly self-assured, know-it-all older brother – usually so perfectly dapper – look so utterly disheveled. A pile of papers were scattered across the bed and pooled along the floor beside it. A neatly folded pair of pajamas lay undisturbed on a far corner of the bed, by virtue of Blackstone no doubt. A heavy crystal decanter – now nearly emptied of its contents – and a partially filled glass sat on his bedside table. No wonder Philip wasn’t hungry, he’d opted for a liquid dinner instead._

_A pulse of trepidation ran through her but she pushed it down, storming across the room with a sharp clicking of her low-heeled evening pumps._

_“Ugh, what is all this?” she demanded, looking about in disgust. “You’re such a slob! I shall be embarrassed to ring a maid to clean this!”_

_Philip raised his head sluggishly to peer at her through swollen, red-rimmed eyes and carefully slurred at her, “I...I said to...to go away.”_

_“Well, too bad!” Charlotte retorted, hands flying to her hips. “Here I was worried about you and you’re in here getting plastered! Very nice!”_

_He sighed tiredly and dropped his head back to the pillow as though he could no longer support its weight, eyes closing again._

_She shifted and caught sight of a damp piece of paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe – Christ, there was spilled brandy on the floor beside the bed, too, but thankfully no broken glass that she could see. She bent down, peeling the paper off and glancing at it curiously._

Dearest Philip, _it began – a letter then, the ink blurred in areas but still reasonably legible. As her eyes skimmed over its contents – a tongue-in-cheek description of the writer's day – she thought in bewilderment,_ Why on earth is my brother corresponding with a _footman?_

_A_ _particular passage gave her pause, dread_ _abruptly_ _coalescing heavy_ _as lead_ _within her chest, and she forced herself to read it again more carefully._ “I’m a menace to all and sundry thanks to you,” _it said,_ “I nearly gave a baroness a soup-bath because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about being inside of you.”

_Her hand clamped over her mouth as something in her mind seemed to shatter, screaming_ **wrong, wrong, wrong!**

_“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about being inside of you...” The words echoed against her will, words she would never forget as long as she lived._

_A chill ran through her and refused to leave, like some infernal creature was dancing a jig over her grave as the implication of those words remorselessly carved their place within her. Trembling hands flipped the letter over, searching out a name._

Yours, Thomas, _it was signed._

_THOMAS._

_How could this be? How could her brother be, be...THAT...and with a servant no less? How could her arrogant brother with nary an egalitarian bone in his body have ever_ submitted _to another man in that way...no, he wouldn’t...and to a mere footman, not ever...!_

_It was unspeakable, except in the form of a nasty joke._

_“_ _Please tell me this is short for Thomasina,” she said_ _absurdly,_ _weakly, voice shaking._

**Tell me I’ve misunderstood. Tell me this is one of your friends’ obscene jokes. Tell me _anything_ , just don’t tell me this is true!**

_Philip’s eyes_ _snapped_ _open at her words, the colour draining from his face_ _as his eyes landed on_ _what she held in her hands._ _His eyes, glazed with drink,_ _sobered_ _substantially_ _as_ _they met her shocked, stricken gaze._ _His mouth opened, no words emerging, and closed tightly once again. Finally h_ _is face fell,_ _more pained than ever she’d seen it,_ _eyes_ _staring,_ _wide and anguished, lower lip_ _quivering_ _._ _He looked so terribly young in that moment._

_F_ _inally his voice emerged in a hoarse_ _whisper_ _._ “I’m sorry...I’m so sorry...” _His eyes shone and he tore them away, ashamed._ _“_ _You..._ _you_ _shouldn’t have to know something like this.”_

_Charlotte stared hard at him, t_ _he shadow of things past_ _darting_ _through her mind, suddenly taking on new_ _shape._

_The telegram that had arrived at breakfast when Philip was sixteen years old, summoning Papa to Eton that very day. The way Papa had returned looking like he’d aged a decade by later that day, his proud shoulders slumped as if they carried a terrible weight. How shortly after, whatever he’d told Mama had left her bedridden for days and, as usual, no one would tell Charlotte – then_ _nearly twelve_ _years old – anything._ _All she’d known was that her_ _troublesome_ _brother must’ve done something really awful at school this time._

_They_ _ha_ _dn’t attended the season that year_ _and the Philip_ _that_ _had_ _returned home for his summer holiday was_ _a changed boy from the one she’d last seen._ _Her brother of the previous summer had_ _been one that_ _laughed and teased and yet all the while endured her endless requests to help her practice her dancing lessons and_ _tolerated_ _all the many, many times she’d stepped on his foot._ _The brother who’d returned the next summer was_ _a creature altered,_ _all caged restlessness, a pot on the verge of boiling over. She’d supposed that was to be expected to some extent given the_ _vacation_ _-long house arrest he’d been placed under with not even a single friend permitted to visit. She hadn’t expected, however, just how moody and taciturn he’d be. Not that that had stopped her from trying to_ _talk_ _to him, at least initially. It soon became clear that trying to get him to play games, go for a walk, or even just talk to her would result in being lashed out at. But that had been nothing to the horrible arguments between him and their father._

_She’d never seen_ _Papa_ _so angry, hadn’t even known that it was possible for her normally even-tempered father to be so furious. He’d frightened her. One day she’d walked in on a shouting match between Papa and Philip and seen her mother crying. That had scared her even more._ _A_ _ll she’_ _d been able to_ _think was what could her brother have ever done to make_ _Papa_ _say such hateful things to him?_ _She’d even overheard Victoria, their older sister, call Philip shamelessly depraved. He’d_ _just_ _given a flinty laugh in reply._

_Arabella, their second oldest sister,_ _always the peacemaker even the midst of calamity, had begged her to stop. She’d entreated Victoria to see that their brother needed their help not their condemnation. She’d said that they should be praying for him. At this Charlotte’s young heart had fluttered with fear and she’d been unable to keep listening. She’d drifted into the doorway,_ _asking in a tremulous voice if Philip was sick. Even_ _at_ _age twelve Charlotte had known that Philip, as their father’s sole heir, was_ everything _. Their entire futures lay in his hands. Women couldn’t inherit. Without him if something happened to their father they would lose their home._

_Momentarily startled by her presence, her siblings had fallen silent and exchanged strained glances. Arabella had been the first to recover, giving her a sweetly reassuring smile and coming to wrap her arms around her_ _as she told her that Philip was going to fine. She hadn’t quite believed her but all of her attempts to find out what was really going on had been gently deflected again and again._ _It had_ _done little to_ _alleviate Charlotte’s sense that_ _beneath the surface of their pretense_ _her family was_ _coming apart at the seams._

_Philip had avoided coming home for his holidays ever since_ _th_ _at_ _summer_ _, choosing_ _instead_ _to go home with one of his friends_ _whenever possible_ _. N_ _either_ _hers_ _n_ _or their mother’s entreaties had been enough to make him come home and Charlotte_ _ha_ _dn’t see_ _n_ _him again for_ _an entire year_ _._ _He’d only returned for a few days after_ _his_ _graduation from Eton, long enough to quarrel with their parents again over not being permitted his year to tour_ _the continent_ _before beginning his education at Oxford –_ _as was long standing tradition for Somerset men._ _Eventually_ _they’d relented somewhat and_ _permitted_ _him to spend rest of the summer in Italy_ _with the family of a friend on the condition that he stay out of trouble and report promptly to Oxford by the start of Michaelmas._

_Thereafter he seemed to have been restored to his previous self, possibly even more cocksure and cavalier than ever, and Charlotte had gradually let herself forget_ _over the years_ _that anything had ever gone wrong with him._ _He’d still continued to avoid home like the plague, refusing to attend the season and electing to travel or visit with friends during holidays._ _He’_ _d_ _chosen to_ _stay and_ _stud_ _y_ _all through_ _his_ _summers._

_In the end, it had_ _taken_ _Papa’s death_ _to bring_ _him back._ _Though not_ _for long,_ _despite her own pathetic pleas to him_ _. He’d only stayed_ _just_ _long enough for the funeral and to deal with the legalities of assuming the Duchy of Crowborough. He’d signed over the power of attorney to their mother and then disappeared back up to Oxford for another two years_ _to finish his degree._

_For years_ _she’d_ _resented_ _with him for_ _hiding from_ _his responsibilities and abandoning them..._ _her..._ _but it seemed he’d been_ _hiding from_ _even more than she’d_ _imagined_ _._

_Leave it to Philip to take someone’s worst expectations of him and surpass them every time._

_“Did everyone know except me?” She choked out at last._

_A muscle in Philip’s jaw contracted and, reluctantly, he gave a tight nod._

_Her thoughts began to spin helplessly, betrayal flickering in and out amongst fear and uncertainty. Arabella had been right._

**God help us.**

_Philip could ruin them all – and the grander the family, the more exponential the scandal. He would be an ugly stain on their family line for all time, an unforgettable legacy of the fourteenth Duke of Crowborough that would leave them all tainted by association, untouchable. And yet looking into Philip’s pale, stricken face Charlotte saw he looked almost as heartsick as she felt...and she found she couldn’t quite bring herself to hate him. Not entirely. Having been burdened with becoming the inexperienced head of a great house at nineteen years old had been strain enough but_ this _..._

_How did Philip bear hiding something so fundamental about himself from his family, his friends, the world? How did he live with that ever-present sword of Damocles hanging over his head, always walking a knife’s edge between society’s reverence and revulsion?_

_Charlotte didn’t know if she could have borne it._

_In the long, heavy silence, her inner turmoil began to slow and coalesce into a numb sort of dread. She tossed the letter in her hand on the bed, not wanting any further contact with it._

_“Are these all from the same man?” she asked rigidly and then another, far more disturbing, thought entered her mind. “Or are there others? And_ **did you write back?”**

_The guilty grimace that crossed Philip’s face told her more than enough. Mama was right, everything she told Philip really did go in one ear and out the other._

Never put anything in writing...

_“No, they’re all from Thomas!” he protested quickly. “I never wrote to anyone else, not like that.”_

_Charlotte’s eyes widened in horror as he confirmed her suspicions. She was opening her mouth to unleash some very unladylike language on him for being a complete fucking idiot when he raised a hand as if to deflect a blow._

_“It’s fine now though,” Philip insisted. “I went and got them all back and burned them.”_

_This brought her up short._

_“You mean you asked for them back and he just_ gave _them to you?” she pursued with some astonishment. If someone had actually written her love letters she’d have only given them back over her dead body._

_The grimace made a reappearance. “Not exactly. I...well, I stole them back. I couldn’t risk him not being willing to give them back, especially not when he was angry with me for ending things.”_

_Charlotte just goggled at him, repeating in disbelief. “You_ **stole** _them and then burned them?”_

_She ought not have been surprised that Philip was capable of such a thing. He was a Somerset, he could have done much worse._

_“Well, I hadn’t planned the burning part,” he admitted, vaguely discomfited. “I’d meant to bring them home with me for posterity but when I told Thomas I had to end our liaison he threatened to use them to blackmail me. I’d already suspected he would, that’s why I took the letters first.” He frowned, blindly fingering one of the letters on his lap. “I had really hoped I would be wrong on that count...but I couldn’t leave it to chance. Though, naturally, I couldn’t resist letting him know he’d been outwitted and showed him I already had the letters.” An ironic laugh. “Then he came charging at me and I had no choice but to throw them in the fireplace before he could get his hands on them.”_

_“Good grief,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face and sinking down on the edge of the bed. To think all this had happened just yesterday. “You barely escaped that one by the skin of your teeth. What the hell were you thinking getting involved with someone like that?!”_

_Had not Mama always warned them how unscrupulous uneducated people could be when they saw a chance to advance themselves or make easy money?_

_Philip sighed. “I don’t think I really was.”_

_“Or at least not with the part of your anatomy that counts,” Charlotte grumbled, shoving the papers near her into a messy pile._

_A wry chuckle. “You’re...not wrong.”_

_“And what are you doing with these now?” She inquired, gesturing disapprovingly at the heap of letters. A hunted look flashed over Philip’s face and his eyes shifted down to the stationary still pinched between his fingers._

_“I, uh...I thought I’d read them just one more time before I got rid of them but that...” - a strange, broken laugh escaped him mid-confession as he reached out to gulp down the last of brandy in his glass - “...that was a mistake.” He raised his head with a suddenness that took her aback, regarding her hopefully, glazed eyes burning as he reached out for her hand. “But you’re here...you can help me. You...you can burn them for me.”_

_Appalled, Charlotte snatched her hand out from under his, sputtering,_ _“What? I’m not_ burning _your_ _illicit_ _love letters for you!”_

_“Fine,” Philip_ _bit out_ _indignantly. “Don’t come crying to me if you ever have a dead body you need to get rid of.”_

_“_ _Don’t worry, I won’t,” she s_ _neered_ _. Of the two of them, Philip was far more likely to need to dispose of a corpse at some point in his life._ _He just rolled his eyes at her._

_Charlotte watched as her brother began to silently gather the letters scattered across his lap, smoothing and refolding them with unusual care. She replayed his earlier words,_ _the_ _intimation_ _that he was_ _unable to destroy them himself, and a cautious curiosity_ _grew_ _in her despite herself._

_“Did you love him?”_

_P_ _hilip froze over his ministrations, taken off guard._

_She_ _was_ _unsure of quite how she felt_ _about the_ _concept personally._ _Was it even possible for two men to be in love? Everything she’d ever been taught said no, it was unnatural_ _and abhorrent_ _. And yet, she also knew that love often wasn’t what it seemed and came in many more forms than was considered socially_ _acceptable._

Help me understand this, _she wanted to say._ I don’t want to hate you.

_Philip forced a brittle, rueful_ _smile_ _and she caught a flicker of sadness before he_ _lowered his eyes. “If I did, it doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”_

_A_ _n unexpected pang of sympathy struck her. “_ _You could still write to him, you could still try -”_

_“No, I can’t,” he cut her off shortly, continuing to collect the papers with brisk motions. “I made things rather final. I’m sure Thomas never wants to see my face again, and if he were to receive a letter from me it would probably follow the others straight into the fireplace unread, and perhaps rightly so.” He paused and looked to her steadily. “That chapter of my life is over. There’s no point looking back.”_

_She met his gaze and something in his face made her reach out to take his hand. He tensed, eyeing her in surprised bewilderment, but didn’t pull away. “What will you do with the letters?”_

_He regarded the stationary in his lap pensively. “I really ought to destroy them...but I can’t seem to bear the thought of it just yet. I’ll just lock them away somewhere safe for now, I suppose.”_

_“Are you sure a place safe enough exists?” she asked sarcastically._

_The corner of Philip’s mouth twitched upwards and he gave her hand a little squeeze. “I’ll just ask Blackstone where Father kept his skeletons hidden. They’ll be safe as houses.”_

_“They’d better be,” Charlotte muttered darkly, as she handed him some of the letters beyond his reach. What a prolific writer this illicit Thomasina was. She studied him as he murmured a thanks, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Do you even like women at all?”_

_She’d been watching him flirt with pretty girls for years, it bore asking._

_His brows lifted and his lips pressed into a discomfited line as he admitted reluctantly, “Not the way I’m supposed to. I never have, not once.”_

_Well, that was troubling._

_“How are you supposed to get married then?” she found herself asking anxiously._

_Philip gave a short laugh, quipping, “With great reluctance.” He shrugged and continued matter-of-factly. “It’s not as though it really makes a difference in the grand scheme of things. Our sort rarely make matches for love anyway and happiness isn’t exactly the first priority in a society marriage. It’s perhaps the one enviable aspect of a commoner’s life, the freedom to choose whom they truly wish to marry. No status quo, no lofty perch to maintain.”_

_Charlotte grew sombre at his words, looking down at where their hands were so rarely clasped. The last time he’d held her hand was at their father’s funeral over four years ago. She suddenly ached to be a little girl again. It had been so easy to just reach out and take her big brother’s hand once upon a time, whenever she wanted, no reason necessary._

_The one potentially good thing that could be said for the evening’s terrible revelations was that they had left Philip more open than he’d been in a very long time. Had he been entirely sober he’d have long deflected this line of conversation, but now she realized she had a unique opportunity to make an appeal._

_“But is it really worth it?” Charlotte proposed earnestly. “Giving up what could be true happiness to maintain all this?”_

_A wry smile. “Sometimes I’m honestly not sure.”_

_“I’d rather live a simpler life but be happy,” she confessed. “I’m not interested in getting married just for the sake of being married. I don’t care what title or wealth a man comes with, I don’t want to marry for anything less than love. I don’t care if I never marry at all so long as it’s not to the wrong man for the wrong reasons. And you know Mama’s already on the hunt for my future husband now that I’ve been presented at court.”_

_“I’m sure she’s already got a list of prospective suitors lined up,” he returned dryly._

_Charlotte seized his hand tightly, pleading, “Don’t let her marry me off to someone I don’t love. Please, Philip, promise me! Please promise me you’ll support me if I don’t want to marry whomever she ends up choosing. I_ really _don’t care if I end up a spinster and society looks down their noses at me. You may be able to bear marrying someone you don’t love with_ great reluctance _, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to be trapped that way.”_

_Her heart pounded as Philip just frowned through her heartfelt entreaty. As the Duke he was the only one who had the power to stand up to their mother. If he had the courage to endure her wrath, of course._

_Her brother’s warm hazel eyes met hers at last and his expression softened. “If that’s what you want, of course I’ll support you. I always will. And,” he added with hint of a rueful smile, “at least one of us should get to be happy in this life.” Her eyes began to sting with relief and he pressed her hand reassuringly before releasing it and sitting up sluggishly. “Now help me get all these letters off the floor.”_

_Charlotte stood and stepped back, waiting as Philip dragged himself out of bed._

_“Oh,” he said, suddenly tilting on his axis without anything propping him up. Startled, she just managed to catch his arm before he unbalanced._

_“Christ, Philip,” she gritted out with the effort of holding him up. “How much did you drink? Just stay in bed before you fall over.”_

_She pushed him over unceremoniously back onto the mattress. He was useless, anyway, and bloody heavy besides._

_“Make sure you don’t miss any,” Philip cautioned, voice muffled as he shifted awkwardly out of the undignified heap he’d fallen into. “Check everywhere – under the bed and the nightstand -”_

_“I know,” Charlotte groused as she crouched down._

_“- because it would be a disaster if one of the maids any of them,” he continued, quite unnecessarily._

_“I know!” she huffed and then snapped, “Give me a handkerchief or something! You’ve spilled brandy on the floor and I’m not ruining my dress for your sorry sake!”_

_Philip muttered something no doubt uncomplimentary under his breath and subtle sounds of fabric being brushed came as he fumbled about. A minute later his pajama shirt was tossed over the edge of the bed to land in front of her. She seized the shirt and started swiping it about the ground, tossing the slightly damp letters up onto the bed as she went. Grudgingly ending up on her hands and knees to get at a few errant pieces of stationary that had migrated under the bed, she caught sight of Philip’s bare feet as he got up on the other side of the bed and began to pad along with slow, unsteady steps._

_“Watch out for glass over there!” she shouted as she strained to reach one of the faraway papers. “Don’t expect me to look after you if you cut your stupid foot open!”_

_“Well, doesn’t your cup just runneth over with the milk of human kindness?” Philip lamented acerbically._

_Charlotte bared her teeth at him from her concealed position. Was there no amount of liquor capable of muddling that vexatious tongue of his?_

_“Ha! Say that to me again when Mama gets home. She called while you were up here getting tight. She said she’ll be back in two days and to tell you to get packed. She’ll be booking your passage to New York on her way back.”_

_There was a taut beat of silence._

_“Brilliant. So tightens the unrelenting noose.”_

_Finally, unable to find any more of the cursed letters, Charlotte straightened up stiffly to find Philip sitting at his writing desk, a small key clutched in his hand._

_“Is that all of them?” he asked worriedly._

_“It better be,” she grumbled, massaging her sore knees a bit before gathering up the messily piled letters and depositing them before her brother._

_“Thank you,” Philip said quietly and proceeded to align them into a more presentable state._

_Charlotte sat on the bed once more and watched him thoughtfully as he opened one of the desk drawers and gently set the_ _sheaf of_ _papers inside._ _“_ _Fiona said there’s an old superstition that you should never burn love letters unless you want to destroy that love...but I wonder if it makes a difference if only half of them are destroyed?”_

_“Stop talking nonsense,” he admonished with a scoff, turning the key and locking the letters away into darkness. **]**_

“He is not _my_ Thomas,” Philip objected, words clipped. “But he _is_ our bloody butler for the foreseeable future.”

_“What?”_ Charlotte hissed, flabbergasted, and demanded, “How did you let this happen?”

“I...I didn’t...exactly,” he claimed diffidently. “ _Helena_ hired him.”

“And she’d fire him on the spot if she knew who he really was!” she snapped back, clutching unconsciously at the silk blouse at the base of her throat. “God knows we don’t need another repeat of the George debacle.”

Her brother’s face pinched at the reference to their former first footman. The younger man been unceremoniously dismissed from his position after Helen had gone into Philip’s bedroom looking for him one evening and instead came upon a comely George sensuously poised atop the bed cover in nothing but his white bow tie. Philip had seemed genuinely shocked by the retelling of the footman’s actions and had sworn up and down that he had not at any time been having an affair with any of their footmen. He had however admitted that perhaps he’d unintentionally led the man on and thus given him the idea that an unexpected seduction wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome.

That admission had surprised neither Helen nor Charlotte as Philip had long been incorrigible in that regard. Flirting shamelessly and without intent - with men and women alike – had been a long-standing vice of his since adolescence. Though in the end Helen had taken Philip at his word and been far more vexed with his conduct than their footman’s, she’d still decided it was best not to tempt fate to bring disaster on their heads and sent George packing with a generous severance and excellent reference.

“I know,” Philip replied tartly, stalking off a few feet farther from her before halting. “That’s why I didn’t tell her.”

Charlotte stared at him in shock, hand flying off her blouse to fist at her side. Her face hardened as she thundered at him in disbelief, “Philip, he tried to _**blackmail**_ you!”

He winced slightly, whether at her words or their volume she couldn’t have said. Charon whinnied quietly and, having apparently decided that his master had gone far enough away for his tastes, ambled after him – just as he’d been doing since he was a foal and Philip had been but a ten-year-old boy gifted with the offspring of one of his father’s prize racehorses. The boy and foal had both been born at Crowborough and Charon was nearly as much a creature of it as the Duke himself.

“I’m well aware,” Philip gritted out, jaw clenched and gaze darting about swiftly to ensure her outburst hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention. It hadn’t, and when he continued it was with a note of reproval. “Just because things ended badly between us doesn’t mean I want to see the man destitute on the street.”

_Christ._ Charlotte swore he always chose the most inopportune times to be nice; if indeed _nice_ was the word for it.

Chin lifting imperiously, she glared at him. In a tone so reminiscent of their mother’s – aloof and coolly contemptuous – that at any other time she’d have been disturbed by how naturally it came to her, she proclaimed, “I’m sure don’t know why you would care about someone capable of threatening our family, but he has _no_ business working in our house after what he did.”

Philip folded his arms across his chest uneasily, starting slightly as Charon lipped gently at his hair from behind. He relaxed perceptibly as the horse nuzzled his shoulder and then rested his chin over it. He returned Charlotte’s gaze evenly as he absently reached up to pat Charon’s muzzle comfortingly. “I don’t think he’s a threat to us any longer, if indeed he ever truly was.”

“You thought him dangerous enough to destroy your letters,” she reminded him pointedly. “Are you sure you’re not letting your feelings for this man overtake your common sense?”

A sigh escaped him, composure faltering a touch. “No, not entirely. But I know Thomas, and I believe he was sincere enough when he assured me he’s hasn’t come to harm our family.”

“Then what has he come for?” Charlotte questioned intently, then paused uneasily. “Do you think he means to try and get you back?”

“I very much doubt it,” he said with a mirthless laugh, face falling slightly. “You...you didn’t see the way he looked at me.”

“All the more reason for him to not be here then,” she pronounced.

Philip shrugged. “He said he needed the job, seemed rather desperate about it in fact.”

“Surely he could find a position elsewhere,” she muttered, waving a hand dismissively.

“As a _butler_?” he challenged. “You know as well as I that service positions have been dwindling more and more since the war’s end. Barely anyone can afford to keep them on anymore thanks to all these blasted taxes.”

Charlotte scoffed, eyeing him skeptically. “He’s come all the way to Crowborough for _employment_. Do you really believe that? A rational man wouldn’t darken our doorstep at all. And why would he even accept a position working for you after the way you things ended things? It sounds like a perfect opportunity for revenge. You wouldn’t hire him so he takes advantage your wife’s ignorance to have her hire him instead? It’s all rather dubious conduct if you ask me.” She poked a sharp fingertip into his bicep and added, “And if you keep the truth from Helen, you’re even worse than he is.”

“Thank you for that unasked for moral judgment,” Philip put in primly.

The eyebrow she arched at him was pure sass even as her tone was deceptively honeyed. “If you didn’t want my opinion, why did you tell me for?”

Her brother shifted uncomfortably where he stood, reaching out needlessly to grasp Charon’s reins, before finally shrugging and hastening to admit, “Because you’re the only who knows about him – other than Blackstone, but he hardly counts and I already knew what _he’d_ have to say about the matter.”

“Well, if you came here just so I can inform you that you’re a fool and a liar, then congratulations,” she goaded.

A wry smirk formed. “Thank you, Charlotte. I do so treasure our little talks.”

“Any time,” she offered sarcastically. “I presume you’d like me to keep all this to myself.”

“I’d appreciate that, yes,” he said, cautiously polite.

“It’ll cost you,” Charlotte informed him levelly.

Philip’s expression darkened.

_“Excuse me?”_ he growled low, straightening to his full height to tower over her. _“_ And after you’ve taken such umbrage at the act of extortion.”

Unconcerned, she stepped forward to pat his arm mock-consolingly as she insisted sweetly, “Oh, that’s different, we’re _family._ And I’m your only unmarried sister, it’s practically my duty in life to squeeze every bit I can out of you.”

Not that she wouldn’t have kept her mouth shut regardless. Their first lesson in life had been _f_ _amily loyalty before all._

Still, no reason she couldn’t profit a bit in return for the guilt she’d feel. Although she’d had two older sisters growing up, the age gap between them – eleven and twelve years respectively – had left her bereft of a close sister all her life until Philip had married Helen (and thank heavens he’d married her and not Mary Crawley with her miasma of superciliousness – Charlotte would’ve had to _move_ as far away from her beloved Crowborough as possible or worse yet, into the dower house with her mother, a fate worse than death some would have said). In the end, though, blood was thicker than water and Philip held the ultimate power in the family, if only on paper. Better to chose her battles wisely.

Philip scowled down at her, eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”

She canted her head thoughtfully. “You can double my allowance to start. If I think of anything else I’ll let you know.” He just glowered at her. “Do you we have an accord, or with I be having a chat with my dear sister-in-law when I get home?”

Philip’s lips curled into a scornful smirk at her bluff. “About what, precisely? I haven’t done anything that strictly violates the terms of my agreement with Helena, nor do I intend to.”

“Oh, really?” Charlotte drawled out pleasantly. “Then you won’t mind when I fill in the blanks of our new butler’s identity as soon as I get home and let your wife come to whichever conclusions she may about your _intentions_.”

A tight smile. “Fine, but this arrangement will in no way be permanent.”

“We’ll see,” she returned, deliberately placid. “But just to be clear, I do not approve of any of this. Not to mention, if Helena finds out you’ve been having an affair with a servant behind her back she could very well divorce you and take her fortune with her. And without it, sooner or later we could lose Crowborough.” Cool blue eyes burned into his. “Is a blackmailer really worth risking our ancestral home?”

The warmth seeped out of his gaze, mouth settling into a grim line. “Don’t worry, I may have let Thomas get away with crossing me once but if he even thinks of betraying me again I’ll ruin him for good this time.”

“And if you don’t, _I will,”_ she warned, a razor’s edge in her voice.

Philip smiled then, crooked and sly, as he uttered softly, “Oh, I know, my dear. That’s why I told you.”

A dark brow quirked. Then, slowly, a wicked grin unfurled across her lips.

 

TBC

 

Notes:

The eldest son of a titled peer, his heir, often has a subsidiary or courtesy title. Many dukes have additional titles such as earl or viscount and by courtesy his heir is addressed by one of his lesser titles. The subsidiary title must always be of a lesser rank than his father’s (e.g. if a peer has more than one dukedom, his son cannot also be referred to as a duke).

The subsidiary title traditionally used by the heir of the Duke of Crowborough is the Marquess of Winchelsea.

\^_^/


End file.
